Fracture
by Inspector Panderp
Summary: The machine that sustains the lethal matches of the League fails. Events spiral outwards. (Character death, multiple characters beyond listed. M for graphic violence.)
1. Prologue

"Summon the Starchild, quickly!"

"Send word to the Council!"

She's trying – she's trying, _so hard_ – but the bleeding won't stop, the wounds are too many.

Nami can heal, but she's no Soraka.

Diana lays before her, a picture of cracked armor and bloody steel. The Tidecaller has always known the woman to be exceptionally pale, but her pallor is now beyond unearthly. She takes shuddering breaths, silvery eyes glancing back and forth without focus as the blood pools around her, color draining from her face with every passing second.

"Diana," calls Nami, tremulously, "can you hear me?"

The woman coughs in response, chest rising unevenly as the air rattles in her lungs. She tries to force the water into her wounds – to purge the impurities and soothe the pain – but it just seems to slosh uselessly at the armor. Right now, all she can do is clear away some of the blood.

"I just... wanted to believe," Diana whispers, words pushing through her teeth with a hiss. "W-was I wrong?"

For a moment, she doesn't say anything – can't, because she doesn't know what to say. Diana's eyes slide over and meet her gaze, but they're empty, almost as if they're not really looking at her. The woman coughs again and gasps in another wavering breath, face wrenching in pain.

"Leona!" she cries out, with a strangled voice that fades back into a feeble murmur. "Leona... I... Was I w-wrong?"

Diana is crying. The tears slip down her pallid cheeks and mix with the blood, rich and red and flowing. It is stark against her white hair and white skin, and it is horrifically beautiful.

"Leona?" she asks again, voice almost pitching into a whimper. A trembling, bloody hand reaches upwards.

The Scorn of the Moon is dying – but she is so beautiful, Nami thinks. So beautifully sorrowful. It is like the sight of a gasping dolphin on land, the grotesque poetry of its slow death, heart-wrenchingly fascinating and painful to witness all at once. In Diana, and the dolphin, there was that dreaming of better things. That yearning for what could not be granted.

Here is the moon, she realizes, reaching for the sun.

"No," says Nami, at last, and she takes Diana's hand in hers. Something, some great emotion is constricting her throat, forcing a knot in it so that it's difficult for her to speak. "You weren't wrong."

Diana smiles then – a faint, weak smile as her hand feebly squeezes the Tidecaller's. Blood leaks from her blue lips. Nami shuts her eyes tight and forces back the tears, shakily pressing the cold hand to her face.

"L-Leona. I loved... you," Diana manages, exhaling through trembling breaths.

"...I loved you too," Nami sobs.

She can hear the thunderous sound of footsteps, the urgent shouts, but they are far off in her perception – like a cascading waterfall in the back of her head. The clip-clop of hooves resound.

"I'm here!" says the Starchild.

When Nami opens her eyes, it is far too late.

.

.

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	2. Ripple

Because she was a warrior of Rakkor, she would not cry. This, above all else, was what Leona told herself as she tried to coax her hands to cease their shaking. She closed her eyes slowly, resting her forehead against the wall and taking a deep breath.

Diana was dead.

The mere thought of it summoned a resurgence of sorrow – there was a tightening in her chest that she couldn't describe. Leona knew that one day she would have had to kill her, knew that somewhere down the road Diana would die. She had done her best over the years to make peace with that. But for Diana to meet her end in an accident? By the hands of someone other than her?

It was inconceivable, and more than anything, the Radiant Dawn wanted it to be a dream.

The Fields of Justice were shutting down. The Institute of War was sending almost all of its champions away until the error could be fixed. Their exact words irked her. Diana's demise had been a mistake. The error they failed to notice had cost her life.

Leona opened her eyes, blinking a few times to clear away the grainy filter. Her hands had stopped shaking, but still she felt unsteady. She backed away from the wall, collapsing ungracefully onto her cot. It was only a matter of time until she would be urged to leave the barracks, to abandon the Institute until they could ensure all was running properly.

She didn't want to leave.

It wasn't that she didn't want to return to Rakkor, nor was it that she had any fondness for the League. She just – she still had so many questions. The why's and how's haunted her, and above all else, she wanted to know how Diana spent her last moments. Was she in pain? Did she die slowly?

What were her last words?

Did Diana leave this world cursing her? It pained her to think so, but Leona knew that the years had not done well for her. The curious, free-spirited girl she once knew had become a bitter woman, and her hands were not clean of fault. Maybe if Diana had not been driven to such circumstances, she would not have ended up here. She wouldn't have died.

Maybe in the end, it was utterly her fault.

Leona shot upright abruptly, some strange kind of urgency flooding her senses. She had to know, to understand what happened. Though she was already opening the door, the Radiant Dawn had but a faint idea of where she was heading, only a vague notion of what she might find once she reached her destination.

Tired of not knowing, that was good enough.

.

.

.

Someone was knocking.

It was more of a sharp rap, really. They must've had thin knuckles, or so the Outlaw figured in the haze of his hangover-addled brain.

"Graves. Graves!"

He groaned, burying his head further into his arms. His head was pounding – but maybe it was actually his door. He didn't know. Didn't care.

"Graves, good god! Will you just open up?" came the indignant shout.

The Outlaw opted to ignore her, sniffling once as he tried to resettle himself. How in the world had he found the table comfortable before? His back hurt like a bitch.

"_Graves!_" she screeched, and the shrillness of it practically split his head. "_O-pen up!_"

"Fortune!" he barked, voice muffled through his arms. He looked up, eyes squinting at the door. "Will you just – it's open, dammit!"

The door swung open to the click-click of high heels as he dropped his head back down to the table, cursing under his breath.

"Finally!" Miss Fortune huffed, hands on her hips. Her nose wrinkled at the strong reek of alcohol in the room, the slovenly mess of bottles at his feet. "And you didn't even share."

"The hell you want?" he grumbled, finally sitting upright. His face had an ill pallor about it, his eyes sunken in and ringed with dark circles.

"You look like shit, old man," she remarked, toeing aside another empty bottle as she circled around to get a better look at him. The Bounty Hunter whistled. "Like a corpse."

"Didja come to take shots at me," he snapped, "or was there something you actually needed?"

"Calm down, I was just checking up on you," she told him flippantly with a wave of her hand. "Nobody's seen you in two-some days. You expect us to just leave you to rot?"

He didn't answer, turning away from her gaze. His head was still pounding, the light of day seared his eyes – but more than anything, it was how empty his insides felt that stuck out to him. He'd tried and tried to fill himself up, with alcohol among other things, but nothing seemed to work.

"You're not in a rut about _her_, are you?"

"Heh." It was a sardonic sort of laugh, more of a wry exhale from the back of his throat than anything. He leaned back in his chair, casting a hand over his eyes. "Reckon I might be."

"You're such a fool," she sighed, crossing her arms.

"I'll give you that one," he said, without moving.

"It wasn't your fault." When Graves didn't respond, the Bounty Hunter kicked the back of his chair, jerking him forward. He glanced over at her, decidedly unamused at her thin smile. "An accident was bound to happen, and you were the one who ended up pulling the trigger on it. That's _it_, now will you stop being a pathetic mess? It's not like you did anything you didn't normally do."

"You listen here, Fortune," he snapped, irritably running a hand through his hair. "I may be a crook, but I ain't no murderer – "

"It _wasn't_ murder, you stupid man!"

"You weren't there. You didn't see the look on her face." The anger faded now; there remained only the hollow quality of his tired eyes. He leaned forward onto the table, covering his face with his hands. "She was so young. Almost as young as you, I reckon..."

Miss Fortune's agitated expression softened. She laid a light hand on his shoulder.

"Malcolm... That's not so young, anymore..."

"Go home, Fortune," he said tersely, shrugging off her hand. "Go back to Bilgewater. The Institute's insistin' everyone go back."

"What do you mean?"

"Ain't any League matches happening when there's a chance of dying again. Not until they get it fixed."

"And what about you?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"What about me?" asked Graves, looking up. "Nowhere I'm looking to go back to." A grim smile stretched across his face. "They want me 'round for some more questioning, anyhow."

"Then I'm not leaving," she said shortly. "Heaven knows if you were left to your own devices how quick you'd kill yourself on the booze."

"You sure about that?" Idly, he tipped a bottle off the edge of the table, watching as it crashed to the floor below in a shattering of glass. "Things'll get heavy around here right quick. People ain't gonna be happy when the word gets out, and far as I know the Institute's expecting some big political blowout. You sure you wanna be here when that gets underway?"

The Bounty Hunter laughed sharply, waving her hand in a disdainfully dismissive gesture. "If it's political muck you're talking about, I've been dealing with that salty old mutt Gangplank for years. I can handle a couple old windbags harping, thank you very much."

"Your funeral," scoffed the Outlaw, reaching for an unopened bottle.

.

.

.

Working next to such a convoluted mess of machinery might have been dizzying for any high-caliber scientist, never mind working on it as he was doing. The potent arcane magic used to power the system, too, posed a dangerous threat should any careless hand accidentally become the completing component in the severed circuit. Any ordinary man would be killed in an instant – the Machine Herald, thankfully, was anything but.

With only the vaguest hint of bitterness, he wondered if he had been the Institute's first choice to repair the system. While it had been a creation of his own designs, he knew that they were beginning to place less and less stock in him as a champion, all questions of his loyalties aside. It wouldn't have surprised him if Jayce had been put to work on it instead – the so-called Defender of Tomorrow's reputation had grown immensely by now. Still, he supposed it would have been foolish for them to have called anyone else to the job. Who better than the creator to repair it?

Viktor paused, yanking out a loose cord with a soft grunt. The system's core had been eaten away at, as if something had been burrowing through the wires. He would have to sever the entire thing and then rewire it again, assuming there was no damage done elsewhere. Though he had augmented his eyes, improvements of which were only amplified by the lenses of his mask, the shadows cast by the thick knotting of wires were still difficult to see through. His third arm whirred as it rotated around to shine the flashlight it held in the proper place.

"I thought I'd find you here."

He had been concentrating so much on the machine, he hadn't heard her enter. The light glinted off of something, deep inside the mess of coiled cords.

"Sheriff," he greeted evenly, lowering himself to his elbows to get a closer look. "If this is about your rifle, now is not the best time."

"I'm not here about that. The Institute has me on the case."

Neither of them needed to elaborate on exactly what case she spoke of.

"Come to poke around the Respawn Room, then?" he asked nonchalantly, reaching his arm shoulder-deep into the gap eaten out of the wires. "Or come to interrogate me?"

"A little bit of both, you could say."

He could hear her heels clicking, as she stepped off to the side. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, only her legs were visible as she went to settle against the main console, the rest of her obscured by the overhanging panel that usually covered the system core he was currently repairing.

"Don't lean on that," he warned, returning to his work. "If you have questions for me, make them quick."

"Why is it just you here? I'd have thought that the Institute would have an entire team working to get this system back online."

"There might have been an entire team necessary to construct it," he said, still scrounging around in the gap, "but there was only one mind that engineered it."

"Yours, I take it," she supplied, without much thought.

"At its completed state, it is extremely dangerous to mess with. Having several others working at once would simply complicate things." He finally caught hold of something – a handful of something – dense and jagged, and he pulled his hand from the gap, flinging the object out with some difficulty. A cracked arcane crystal slid across the floor, in pieces. "Although, without power, it isn't much but a shell."

The Machine Herald crawled out from underneath the panel, brushing the dust off his pants as he stood and surveyed the damage. With the light still focused into the gap, he could see some remnants of the shattered crystal left behind, sparkling in the low light.

"What happened to it?" asked the sheriff curiously, and he turned to see her kneeling by the crystal, examining it.

"There are numerous possibilities," he replied, crossing his arms. "It could have been overloaded by magic and shattered then, or it could have been physically struck. Either would damage it."

"You've experience in damaged arcane crystals, if I recall," she remarked dryly. When he didn't grace her with a response, she continued, "Either would had to have been intentional?"

"Not necessarily in the case of the former. Respawning champions often generate energy surges capable of overloading the crystal, however, the system is equipped with failsafes to deal with them. It is entirely possible that the failsafe erred, and a surge caused the system to go offline." Viktor shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently, robotic arm clicking the flashlight on and off rapidly as if it were a pen. "But..."

"There's no way the failsafe could have erred, is that right?" said the sheriff, finishing his thought.

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "That is correct. I wired it myself – it should be watertight, unless someone tampered with it."

"Beyond that," she began, taking a pair of tweezers out of her belt, "the way this crystal was broken looks as if it were crushed."

He watched as she sifted through the pieces, holding them up for examination before dropping them into a plastic bag.

"Overloaded crystals explode. They do not implode," he remarked.

"Indeed..." she murmured thoughtfully, sealing the bag and tucking it into a pouch on her belt. Caitlyn stood, replacing her tweezers before looking at him. "What's the damage there?" she asked, gesturing at the core.

"Most of the wires that surrounded the crystal are severed – as if something ate through them. As far as my scans have read, everything else seems untouched."

"Severing those wires on their own would have rendered the system offline, wouldn't it?"

"Correct. The components of the core are the most essential parts of the system. Damage to any of it would have ceased system operation."

"Then it seems strange that whoever did this went through all the trouble to crush the crystal. Arcane crystals are notoriously strong, are they not?"

Something about that observation set him ill at ease, and he did not reply to her for a long while, thinking. Someone had gone through all the trouble of disabling, or else bypassing, the heavy security around the Respawn Room, of lifting up the panel covering the system core and cutting through the wires to destroy the crystal within. It was obvious, to both of them, he was sure, that the culprit had wanted the sabotage to go undetected for as long as possible, or else they would have brute-forced their way through the covering panel instead of bothering to dismantle and then replace it, as they had forced their way through the wire knotting around the crystal.

But why? A temporary disabling of the system would not have warranted the crystal's destruction, but it was the only reason he could think of thus far as to why anyone would tamper with his creation. A temporary disabling of the virtual immortality granted by the system left the League's champions vulnerable to such things as assassination – something that, with the plethora of politically high-profile champions in the League, would not have surprised him in the slightest. An assassin could time the disruption with their attempt. A permanent disruption, however, would be equally as perilous to the aggressor as it would be to the intended victim, and the League as they knew it would not be able to last if its champions were once again subject to the dangers of death.

Arcane crystals, particularly of the kind used to power the system, were difficult and expensive to obtain, and finding a replacement would certainly take several months, if not years. It was definite that the Institute of War could not continue operating the Fields of Justice during that time. It was almost as if, by suspending the system, the culprit hoped to suspend the League. But again, why?

A thought came to him, foreboding and unbidden. The Machine Herald shrugged it off with difficulty.

At this point, he knew of only one certainty.

"Whoever rendered my machine offline," said Viktor at last, "did not want it online again for a long time."

.

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	3. Inquiry

How much money could she make, she wondered, if she sold him to a museum?

Resting her head on her hand, Sivir watched him in moderate fascination, tapping her fingers on the table idly. He sat nice and tall, back straight, flipping through the book with an easy swiftness that would have made a bibliophile jealous. As expected, he had a voracious appetite for texts. When had this become a regular occurrence to her, the sight of him devouring yet another tome?

"Is it true," began Nasus, deep voice breaking her from her musings, "that Demacian troops raze Noxian villages to the ground?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "I thought that book was about Ionia."

"It is," he said, "but that question is what I asked of Garen Crownguard the previous evening."

Somehow, she felt like she knew where this was going.

"And?" she prompted, examining her nails.

He frowned, marking his place in the book before closing it. "I do not think he answered me truthfully. Or at all."

"Old Bushmaster dodged the question, huh?"

"He said something like, 'Demacia is always just. Never trust a Noxian.' Then he left."

Sivir snorted, rolling her eyes. Knowing Nasus, that was probably the mild spin on it. Garen was always a little touchy when it came to his home country.

"He's so in love with Demacia it's almost cute," she told him, chuckling derisively. "But it's true. Demacians get real nasty when it comes to Noxus. Razing villages is nothing to them if they're Noxian."

"I see," said the Curator after a pause. He placed a gold coin on the table, sliding it over to her. "Thank you."

"No problem," she replied, pocketing the coin without hesitation. "Just keep the gold coming. Any other questions?"

"About the Kinkou Order..."

Getting rich off him was almost too easy.

For a wise, immortal librarian, Nasus often had an incredibly difficult time discerning the exact facts from the fiction without having had prior experience in their world. This she had learned from several months of their odd arrangement. For the cheap price of one gold coin per question, he could have the completely unbiased verification of a mercenary who'd been everywhere there was to be on Runeterra: her. It had been a joke, when he'd first sent a query her way, but seeing as he took it seriously, she didn't see why not.

She had never found it good for business to be tied down to any one faction, but for the first time it was becoming profitable that she kept all ties loose. Not that the extensive adventuring she'd done in search of ancient artifacts and riches abound was a small part in it, of course. As it turned out, the Curator of the Sands had many questions, and more gold. Inside, some part of her was curious as to why, of all people he had approached her. Sivir half wondered if he wanted to keep tabs on her, more than anything, but it wouldn't make sense as to why he would.

She was partway through explaining the history of the Kinkou when a light knock cut into their conversation. Both of them paused, looking up.

"Pardon. Am I interrupting something?" The Radiant Dawn appeared from beyond the dusty bookshelves, characteristic glow somewhat muffled in spite of her apologetic smile. Something was definitely off about her.

Ever the gentleman, Nasus stood to greet her. "Nothing of great importance. What need have you of the Institute's archives?"

"I'm not so sure myself," said Leona hesitantly, gaze wandering across the great expanse of books. Her eyes met Sivir's. "If you'll pardon my saying, I did not expect to find the Battle Mistress here, of all people."

"Yeah, well, most people don't," she answered wryly. "I'm just doing some business; why are you here?"

"I wanted... periodicals. Records. Anything regarding the League's respawn system."

Nasus frowned. "This pertains to the recent incident, does it not?"

Sivir watched with interest as her visage changed in a near instant. Her politely maintained air of pleasantry gave way to something much more subdued – something much more empty.

"Yes," she answered quietly, "it does."

Seeing that this was a touchy subject, the Curator of the Sands turned to retrieve her requested texts without further comment. Leona stood there, almost awkwardly, solemn-faced before the Battle Mistress. Nasus may have been too polite to ask questions, but Sivir herself had no such qualms.

Everyone in the League - and the Institute - had known that there was some weird kind of history between Leona and the recently deceased. Whenever she'd seen them talking to each other, there was a special kind of venom in Diana's voice that people could only seem to bring out for people they'd cared about first. It was a sound she'd heard firsthand plenty before when some fool thought she concerned herself with anything more than her business.

Watching the Radiant Dawn shift from one foot to the other, something occurred to her.

"You and her," she began wonderingly, sitting upright in her chair, "weren't really enemies at all, were you?"

Leona stiffened almost imperceptibly.

"Were you friends?"

"That's no business of yours," she answered sternly, though her face had not quite lost its pale tint.

"Are you here because you want to know if she can be revived if the system goes back online?" asked Sivir, pointedly. "Or because you want to know if there's an afterlife for people who got connected to the system?"

It was a loaded question, she knew. Maybe too forward for how well they knew each other. Or for how much she was assuming about the situation. Leona might have had some choice words for her - but Sivir never got to find out.

"That is enough, Battle Mistress." Nasus returned with an armful of books and scrolls. He leveled a disapproving gaze on her, saying lowly, "Do not interrogate a grieving woman."

For an intimidating, otherworldly entity, he always had to be the good guy. She rolled her eyes, holding up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. Leona smiled faintly – but there was something utterly self-deprecating in it, she noticed.

"I thank you for your kindness, Curator," the Radiant Dawn said, accepting the texts, "but I don't need your pity."

"Simple courtesy is hardly an act of pity," he answered, directing her to sign in the archive ledger. Leona, it seemed, had no real reply. She simply bid them farewell before turning to leave.

How interesting, thought Sivir idly as she watched the woman go, that two supposed enemies were in actuality friends. How complicated their relationship must have been. The sight of Leona's retreating back seemed to communicate to her a new vulnerability that the Radiant Dawn had never displayed before. She wanted to scoff – this was what friendships did to you.

"Chosen of the Sun," called out Nasus, breaking her out of her thoughts. Leona stopped, head turned slightly looking back over her shoulder. She had just reached the door. "Life and death are part of a cycle. She will not simply cease to exist."

A long paused passed between them, and then Sivir thought she could hear a sigh. Leona turned back to the door, pushing it open slowly.

"Thank you," she said, and then it closed and she was gone.

The Battle Mistress glanced curiously up at her most recent business partner. "Feeling sorry for Lady Sunshine?"

"I have lived through ages upon ages," he explained, evenly. "Loss is an old acquaintance to me. Understanding the cycle of life and death is the first step to moving on."

"Mm, dunno if that neat cycle of yours still applies since the Machine Herald played god and created the system," she said nonchalantly, drumming her fingers on the table. When he didn't respond immediately, she shot him a sideways look. "_You_ don't even know, do you? You were just telling her pretty words to make her feel better."

The Curator of the Sands watched the door for a long moment before exhaling deeply, retaking his seat. "

We will simply have to find out," he admitted, opening his book once more.

The Battle Mistress watched him with mild interest. She never thought she'd see the day when she'd hear wise-men shelling out empty promises. The incident had brought out the strangeness in everyone, it seemed.

For better or for worse.

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"If you intend to find your inner balance, the first step is to remain still."

Despite his advice, the shuffling did not cease. He kept his eyes closed, patiently waiting for her fidgeting to die down. Something soft brushed his arm.

"Ahri."

There was a sigh. "Sorry. I guess I'm not cut out for this meditation stuff."

"Pray tell then why did you seek me out? Why not seek the Monkey King instead?" he asked, unmoving. Shen inhaled deeply, treasuring what stillness there was.

"He's off training with Master Yi. They didn't want me tagging along."

Apparently she had decided to abandon all pretenses of meditating – he could hear the ornamental bells on her clothing jingling as she cat-stretched out of her cross-legged sitting position, his acute senses picking up her every move.

"Is that so?"

"And I quote, 'If you are not here to practice Wuju, then Wuju please leave?' " she told him, in a spot-on mimicry of Master Yi's low voice. The Nine-Tailed Fox huffed petulantly. "The nerve."

"It would be in your best interest to seek other company, if you do not intend to meditate," he said, with a heavy exhale. There was another soft brushing of an errant tail against his arm. "In _both _our best interests."

"You're such a stick in the mud." Ahri sighed dramatically. "I feel sorry for Akali."

That prompted him to open an eye, shooting her a confused look. "Pardon?"

She had reclined on the floor, limbs splayed out in a position that would've been compromising had he been any other man. The fox smiled mysteriously, muffling her giggle with the end of one tail.

"It's nothing."

He didn't trust that it was nothing – not in the slightest – however, it was pointless to pursue the topic. Over the months of his odd acquaintanceship with the fox, Shen had found that she could be surprisingly tight-lipped when she liked. The Eye of Twilight simply took another deep breath, preparing to return to his meditation.

Then his door blew open.

"Oooh, shit. Sorry, bud. Forgot I had my gauntlets running."

The Kinkou ninja didn't react in the slightest, maintaining his cross-legged position on the floor even as the air rushed past him and he felt the slightest grazing of airborne splinters. "That is fine, Enforcer. Do you need something?"

"Cupcake has me running around questioning people about where they were during the... 'incident.' " He didn't need to look to know she was making air quotations. "Told me to start with the Ionian branch."

"Wow, aren't we privileged." The shuffling of clothing and tinkling of bells told him Ahri had risen to a sitting position.

"I know, right? Usually we start with the Zaunites. Sometimes just to piss 'em off." The smirk was almost palpable in her voice.

Underneath his mask, Shen frowned. Even without the unusual order of questioning, it was still strange. The sheriff generally handled interviews, being the more diplomatically disposed of Piltover's finest. What had her so preoccupied that she sent her far less tactful partner in her stead?

"Did the sheriff have other duties to attend to?" he asked, finally opening his eyes. There was no way he could continue his meditations now.

"Yeah, the big wigs sent her in to do some poking around in the confidential areas." She placed her huge, gauntlet'ed hands on her hips, scowling. "They wouldn't let me come because the area in question was 'too delicate for the likes of me to traipse around in.' " Her voice was practically dripping in acid. "So anyway, that's why I've got interview duty right now."

"I see. So then, what questions have you?"

"Let's just start with where you two were when the whole shebang went down. Neither of you were part of that match, right?"

Shen shook his head wordlessly, while the fox chirped out a "Nope!" The Piltover Enforcer nodded, pulling out a notebook and a pen. The two of them watched with interest as she prepared to scrawl something down, glanced at her hands, and then simply tossed both items over her shoulder.

"Only scrubs take notes," she explained with a careless shrug upon noticing their stares. "So were both of you with other peeps, or what?"

"I was having lunch with Wukong," offered Ahri, straightening up. "It happened around noon, right?"

"Give or take a little bit, yeah. And Pajamas over there?"

"Meditating. I had no company," he answered, pointedly ignoring her nickname. "I believe it is possible to confirm that I did not leave my room at all that day."

Vi clicked her tongue twice. "Yeah, we'll see about that, bud. Either of you see anything suspicious?"

The Eye of Twilight only shook his head again, but Ahri hm'ed to herself, tapping a finger against her chin.

"Come to think of it, walking down the hallway that morning I did see the Du Couteau sisters. Katarina was pulling Cassiopeia aside all urgently. I think she said something like, 'It's now or never.' Does that help?"

"Babe, that's perfect," said Vi, snapping her fingers. The metal sparked as it ground together. "Those Noxians are always up to some dastardly shit. This kind of thing is totally their style."

"Any other questions?" asked Shen, calmly.

"Nah, I think I've about covered all my bases. Thanks, bud." She winked and pointed at the fox. "See you around, Ahri. Thanks for the tip."

"Bye, Vi. No problem." She waved goodbye to her as the Enforcer left.

When the woman was out of earshot, he turned and shot her a curious look. "The Enforcer is also an acquaintance of yours?"

"I've got friends in all kinds of places," she said, with another mysterious smile.

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.

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There was something rotten in the Institute of War.

This much, Caitlyn could tell as she held up the fragments of the arcane crystal to the light of her desk lamp. Through the plastic, she could see the slightest pulse of a fading glow, the remnants of the powerful magic that had fueled the system.

By now there was little doubt in her mind that the sabotage had been intentional, and premeditated well ahead of the day of the incident. Impulse crimes were sloppy - tracks and records, fingerprints and DNA - evidence was always left everywhere, and her sharp eyes had never had problems picking them up. No, this had to have been planned extensively for it to have been such a clean job.

No hair, no threads, nothing on the keyboards or the panel, even though she _knew_ that there had to have been someone to screw the panel off the core. The way the wires were severed inside left her suspicious, too. They could usually make some guesses based on the condition they were left in, but the severance was neither clean enough to be deemed by a keen blade, nor messy enough to be deemed by a laser of some kind. Rather, it looked as though they had been chewed through, by some creature.

Viktor had pointed it out to her, when he was in the middle of his repairs, but she hadn't paid it as much mind when she was surveying the rest of the room. Now that Caitlyn thought back to it, it could be significant. A way to narrow the search down to those who had the teeth and the stuff to chew through wires, or had the pets.

The Sheriff of Piltover set aside the bag of shards, turning to the case file that had been prepared for her. Flipping open the folder, she thumbed through the detailed report of the incident: the time and place, the people present, the response, the exact cause of death, time of discovery of sabotage, etc. They had already gotten statements from the most relevant persons of interest, but at the moment Vi was out questioning other champions, just to cover their bases. She wasn't one to follow gut feelings, but something told her this had to do with more than just the Scorn of the Moon.

The statements they had already gotten weren't that helpful, at any rate. The Institute had kept a changing shift of guards stationed outside the only entrance to the Respawn Room at all times, but none of them could recall any activity during any of the projected hours of the crime, or beyond. The sheriff had questioned them extensively in person, and they all swore the days and nights had been all silence. It occurred to her that the break in could have been done during the brief window given by the change in shifts - however, it was so small a time period, it could barely even be considered.

Everywhere she looked, dead ends. And that was only figuring out the details of the crime - goodness knows what a time they'd have dealing with the motive.

A crackle of static from behind her. Caitlyn rose and retrieved her radio from where she'd left it on her bed.

"Cait, you there?" Vi's voice came through, muffled by an electric undertone.

"What is it?"

"I think I got a lead. You might wanna do a status check on the Du Couteau sisters."

Du Couteau? She raised one eyebrow. "Noxian activity?"

"Not exactly. Heard they were acting a little suspicious around the time of the incident. Maybe worth something?"

She nodded, even though she knew full well her partner wouldn't be able to see it. "At the very least, it's a place to start. Everything else has gone nowhere. Is that all?"

A brief pause, and more static. The sheriff wondered if she, maybe, heard music.

"Yeah," answered her partner. "Listen, I found more peeps to hit up. Talk to you in a bit."

"All right," she replied, nodding once again. "Good work, Vi."

"Heh." There was a harsh puff of static that told her that the Enforcer had held the radio too close to her mouth again. "Good luck with your half of it."

"You too."

.

.

.

The gentle music floating throughout the garden was like a balm to her soul. The Starchild closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, simply listening, attempting to attune herself to the surrounding sounds of nature – the rustling of leaves in the wind, the chirping of birds. The day was beautiful, calm and peaceful. Her heart was not.

"Her image refuses to leave me," she admitted to her companion, smiling sorrowfully. "I cannot help but think that, if I had only arrived more swiftly, I could have saved her."

Fluttering chords answered her, comforting in their tones. A butterfly floated past, carried by the summer breeze.

"This is the first time anyone has truly died under my care." Soraka held out her hand, allowing the butterfly to alight upon it. "I always thought I would be prepared for the it... However..."

She paused, watching from the shade of the tree as the insect took flight. They were such lovely creatures, but so fragile – cursed with a short life even her magic could not prolong. Perhaps, in the end, mortals were all butterflies. Blessed to live beautifully, burdened to die quickly.

Unbeknownst to her, a tear dribbled down her cheek.

There came more harmonious tones, strummed notes that rose and fell in volume in a dance up and down the scales. Gently, Sona took the Starchild's hand in hers, offering her a kind smile. Soraka wiped at her eyes, smiling back.

"Thank you, truly," she said. "Your presence is a boon."

The Maven of the Strings patted the back of her hand in reply, returning to her etwahl with a few plucked chords. The Starchild reclined against the wide tree trunk once again, drawing her knees up to her chest.

"D'aaw, that was so sweet it made my teeth ache."

The music ceased abruptly as the two of them looked up. A very familiar form stepped out of the trees, all brash grins and eager steps. The Piltover Enforcer gave them an airy wave, huge, steel gauntlets glinting in the sunlight.

"Hey, ladies," she greeted. "Vi here. I need to ask you some questions."

"Eavesdropping is impolite," chided Soraka, vaguely irked.

"I admit I coulda walked in earlier," she said with a careless shrug, "but _ruin the moment_?"

A razor sharp burst of air sliced the tree next to her, throwing up small splinterings of bark. The Enforcer didn't flinch, cheeky grin only growing wider.

"Okay, okay! Calm down, Silver Strings," she said, holding up her hands. "Just lemme ask my questions and I'll go, all right?"

Sona, predictably, did not respond, but Soraka nodded, saying, "Ask what you must."

Vi crossed the garden with undisguised glee, flopping onto the grass before them.

"So, let's start with the match..."

The Starchild pinched the bridge of her nose with one hand. This, it seemed, would take a while longer than she had hoped.

.

.

.


	4. Theoria

The musty tomes and comforting texture of paper incited in her a wave of nostalgia. It had been a long time since she had breathed the aged air of a library; a long, long time. Leona had never been much of a bookworm, preferring to spend her leisure time in training. When she was still a disciple of the Solari, there had been only one reason she ever went to its huge, expansive archives.

The Radiant Dawn folded the last article with a sigh, as memories of hushed conversations between looming bookshelves, of soft light and simple times appeared before her. Where had the days gone? Those long hours spent simply talking seemed so far away now.

Her research into the League's mysterious respawn system had not yielded much. No details had been released as to the reason behind its conception, let alone how it functioned. The most concrete fact she had found thus far was that its creator was the infamous Machine Herald, Viktor of Zaun. The rest had been scholarly speculation, praise, or criticism. He had unlocked the mysteries of tampering with life and death, of creating immortality, but it seemed he was loathe to enlighten the rest of Runeterra. There were one too many scientific articles in the compilations Nasus had given her that were simply acerbic rants as to the possible consequences of the system. If she thought on it long enough, the Radiant Dawn supposed she could see the far-reaching implications.

The bottom line, however, was that nothing she had discovered was useful to her. Nothing indicated one way or the other the permanence of death in the event of the system's failure, nor did anything detail the fate of those who did indeed perish permanently in spite of a connection to the machine. What was to be of Diana, she could not find out.

It irked her and unsettled her all at once. Leona could understand why the Machine Herald would have kept an iron fist over the details of his research – from what she understood of his history, he was not very keen on losing credit – but the Institute's involvement should have created numerous records of the momentous project. She didn't think they were withholding the information merely out of respect for Viktor's wishes; the Institute was rarely that considerate. No, if there were details being kept secret, the League wanted them hidden.

Why? What secret lay behind the system that the Institute wished to cover up? She didn't know. She didn't know. It was giving her a headache.

Any further spiral into wild speculation was halted by a light knock on her door. Leona shot upright, pushing through the slight vertigo from sitting down so long as she stood.

"Who calls?" she asked, stepping forth.

There was a long pause, and then a timid voice called out, "It's Nami."

That was not a name she was all too familiar with. "The Tidecaller?"

"...Yeah."

"It's open."

The brass knob turned with a click, and in swept the Marai girl. Leona had never spoken to her before, but she had seen her in passing. There was an almost sickly sheen to her today – her scales seemed duller in color than ever before.

"You've heard," she began uneasily as she shut the door behind her, "haven't you?"

So that was what this was about. Leona stood there for a moment, with a countenance of stone before nodding once. "Yes. They say you were with her, when it happened. Will you – can you tell me what happened?"

There was no one better to tell her of the events that transpired than one as directly involved as the Tidecaller. Why she had come to her, the Radiant Dawn did not know, but she would not question providence.

Nami nodded, beginning quietly, "Ashe signaled that Graves was coming up to mid lane, so I – I started running there because I knew she was gonna get ambushed. But I was too late."

Leona swallowed. "She was killed?"

"Not right there, but she took a full buckshot. I tried to heal her, but it wasn't enough. All of us in lane knew it was fatal, but we didn't think anything was wrong until – until she wasn't recalled." The Tidecaller's face screwed up, as if holding in emotion, and her voice wavered with her next words. "They cleared everyone but me away, because I could heal, but I'm not Soraka. I couldn't do it."

"Was she... in pain, when she died?" she asked, hesitantly. She almost didn't want to know.

Nami shook her head, wiping at her face. "Yes. No. I don't know, I don't think so. She wasn't lucid."

"Could she speak?"

"Yeah... Yeah." She nodded, visibly trying to compose herself. "Leona?"

"Yes?" came her tentative response.

"I called on you because... because you need to stop the elders."

The Radiant Dawn was taken aback, frowning. "Pardon?"

"I know you two were rivals, and she was a heretic to the Solari, but – but people say you two were friends, and that you didn't really hate each other, and, and if you don't stop them –"

"Stop," she commanded, halting the Marai in the middle of her rant. "What is going on?"

Nami inhaled tremulously, webbed hands balling into fists. "If you don't stop them, they're going to give her body to the Solari. I heard them – they said they're going to string her up as an example of what happens to heretics."

There was a long, stunned silence.

Leona trudged wordlessly to her cot, sitting down. Nami watched her warily, noted her hands resting on her knees – observed as they slowly gripped, tighter and tighter and tighter. The Radiant Dawn took a long, deep breath.

"I don't think," she said finally, "that there's anything I can do."

"W-what?"

"Diana was a traitor to the Solari," she admitted, with difficulty. "It is the natural fate of a traitor... cruel as it might be. Chosen as I am, I don't know that I have the influence to... stop them."

"You're not... you're not serious," Nami said. Leona only closed her eyes, taking a deep, strained breath. "You can't be serious!"

"Tidecaller, you do not understand – "

"No, _you_ don't understand!" she cut in fiercely. "Leona, she was _crying_ for you."

Her head snapped up, eyes shot open.

"What?"

The Marai was wiping at her eyes again, shoulders shuddering. "She loved you," she told her, voice choked.

There was a sharp ache blooming in her chest – utterly unlike the tightening pangs from before, but Leona tried to endure it. She was a warrior of Rakkor. She would not cry, she would _not_.

"She thought I was you," Nami went on. "So I pretended I was, because it just – it just made her seem so happy..."

Leona clamped a hand over her eyes, turning away. She breathed harshly through her nose, trying to focus the pain.

"...What did you say?"

"I told her that... you loved her too. Because it seemed like the right thing to say."

A long, long moment passed between them – almost an eternity of silence and harsh breathing as Leona tried her damnedest to clear the emotions away. After a while, she nodded slowly.

"I see." Her hand left her face, and Nami could see the redness in her eyes. "Thank you."

The Tidecaller stared at her for a second, watching her collect herself. "So then, will you...?"

Leona nodded, again. "There won't be much I can do, but I... can try."

"...Thank you." Nami laughed heavily, regretfully. "She was my friend, you know?"

"I heard you were her only friend," she remarked softly. "I'm grateful someone was."

"Once you got past all the anger, she was a good person on the inside." The Marai smiled wistfully. "And she was exactly who I was looking for."

"Was she?"

"I'll tell you about it some other time. It's a little complicated," she admitted. "But for now, what are you going to do?"

"I intend to stay at the Institute for a little while longer. Just to... wrap up loose ends." Leona heaved a sigh. "From there, I return to Rakkor. And you?"

"I can't go back to my people yet. I haven't found what I'm looking for."

"Will you be at the Institute, then?"

The Radiant Dawn walked slowly back to her desk, collecting the various texts she had borrowed, for return. Nami watched her in silence for a moment, as if her mind dwelt on other matters.

"Yeah, I guess so," she answered at last, smiling mirthlessly. "After all, I've got nowhere else to go."

.

.

.

Seven years since the High Counselor had disappeared, two years since she had joined the League of Legends, four months since she had last faced Morgana in battle – and one week since the Institute had shut down the Fields of Justice. One week. One week to carry the news forth, one week to carry the sentences out, one week to wait for the so-called Piltover's Finest to give her answers.

Kayle landed softly, folding her wings in. The halls were incredibly empty now that most, champion and summoner alike, had returned home. Had she not been an immortal being utterly accustomed to solitude, the echoing of her footsteps across high-roofed corridors might have summoned in her a kind of loneliness. Nevertheless, she would not be alone for long; she was fast arriving at the door to one of the Institute's many private meeting rooms.

The aforementioned pair that the Counsel had entrusted to look into the incident were there, the Piltover Enforcer lounging with her feet kicked up on the table. It made her want to scoff. How undisciplined. This was why she was the real enforcer for the Institute.

"Miss Kayle," greeted the sheriff evenly, replacing her teacup on her saucer.

"Sheriff Caitlyn," she returned with a nod.

"Hey, Angelface," said the Enforcer, waving a flippant hand at her.

"...Enforcer Vi," she acknowledged with reluctance. The Judicator often regretted ever taking off her helmet in the presence of mortals.

"Let's get started, shall we?" prompted the sheriff, gesturing for her to take a seat.

Kayle nodded, pulling out a chair for herself. "Very well. Review for me your findings. Have you discovered anything definitive?"

"Unfortunately, no," answered Caitlyn. "We've both questioned a number of people, champion and summoner, but nobody has any real answers."

"Just looooots of speculation," added her partner, balancing a mug on the index finger of her gauntlet.

"There _are_ points of interest, however. My interview with the Machine Herald and my own observations of the Respawn Room conclude that the sabotage of the system was indeed intentional."

"Then there is a criminal on the loose," said Kayle, grimly.

The sheriff nodded, taking a sip of her tea. "Indeed, and whoever sabotaged the system wanted more than to disable it for a day. They destroyed its main power source which, according to my sources, could take up to several years to replace."

"Any known motives?"

"Too many, with too much speculation," she sighed. "Until we further investigate the leads we've acquired, I can't say what their motive was."

"Then, suspects?"

"I got one," said Vi. "Or two, maybe. Ahri, the Nine-Tailed Fox, says she saw the Du Couteau sisters acting suspicious around the time it happened. Supposedly, Kitty Kat was pulling her sister along saying something about 'Now or never.' "

"A plot hatched by Noxus, then?" wondered Kayle, warily.

"Possibly," agreed the sheriff. "It is a fact that no one has seen Cassiopeia Du Couteau since the incident – and there are no records of either sister departing the Institute. However... there's something else that bothers me about this whole ordeal."

"Elaborate."

"I was allowed into the Respawn Room, indeed, but I have a feeling there is something being covered up about the system." Caitlyn frowned, swirling the tea in her cup thoughtfully. "Glancing through the records, there are so many details about it omitted. The Machine Herald, himself, was not very open about its operation – only about its structure."

"Think it's something about the system that's the cause of all this?" asked the Enforcer, tossing the mug in the air and then catching it on her pinky.

"It might be something about the system itself, and not necessarily what is opened up by its being disabled that lies at the heart of the matter," explained the sheriff.

Kayle frowned. The Institute had warned her not to let them dig too deeply.

"If you pry into the secrets of the Institute, know that it is my duty to stop you," she warned. "See to it that you don't overstep your boundaries."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that," murmured the sheriff, looking away.

The Enforcer only hummed idly, fiddling with the mug. Silence filled the small meeting room for a long moment. Caitlyn took a sip from her tea. It was all she could do not to sight - nothing but hearsay brought before her after an entire week's time to investigate. Why had they been entrusted with the duty?

"In the end," said the Judicator in a clipped voice, "you have no real answers for me."

"Just give us a little more time," replied Vi breezily, waving a dismissive hand. "We'll nab the culprit and you can do all the judicating you want, Angelface."

"That is _not_ the proper use of the word," she returned, irked.

"But we do need more time," interrupted Caitlyn, intervening before Kayle's temper could rise. "If you don't mind, Miss Kayle. We've still a few leads to investigate, and a number of people to question. The answer will surely come soon enough."

She leveled a stern gaze at the sheriff, whose stare remained calm even so.

"Please."

Kayle sighed, closing her eyes. "Very well. But I expect answers, Sheriff, or else the Institute will take action itself."

The woman nodded, glaring at her partner who, upon noticing, hastily nodded as well. The Judicator, rose, stretching out her wings as she did so – how she hated to keep them folded for too long.

"I take my leave. Return here for another review in one week's time," she said, tapping a finger on the table. "Until then."

She headed for the door.

"So long, Angelface!"

"Vi, you could at least - !"

Any further scolding was sealed into the room by the sturdy oak of the closing door. Kayle stood silently in the hallway for a moment, listening to the vague sounds of a struggle coming from the room, before shaking her head and moving on. What an odd pair. She only hoped they could do what had been tasked of them – before the Institute took it upon itself to do so.

After all, the Institute had little mind for justice.

.

.

.

"More tea?"

"Yes – please and thank you!"

"And for Tibbers?"

"Just a lil' bit. He's on a diet."

"And Mr. Zac?"

"Uh... sure, kid. Why not?"

The Secret Weapon shifted uncomfortably in his tiny, plastic seat, watching as the yordle girl poured out his portion from his position hunched over the small play-table. It wasn't actually tea – apparently Caitlyn had given them some earl grey once and Annie had thought it was gross, so they were just using milk in a teapot.

"There you are," said Lulu with a flourish.

It took him prodigious control to grasp the cup's handle between his thumb and index finger without completely smothering it. He smiled, a tad weakly, at her. "Thanks... Say, aren't you going to pour Amumu some?"

"Oh." The Fae Sorceress turned slowly to look at the quivering squirrel in the seat beside her, visage as cold as stone. "I forgot about him."

If he wasn't afraid of accidentally knocking something over with a wayward limb, he might have gone to massage his temples. The mummy was crying again, although you could hardly tell when he was a squirrel. As he'd found out from his semi-reluctant participation in these various tea parties, Lulu loved to bully Amumu around – if only a little bit. Zac could barely remember when he wasn't a squirrel during their parties. He had been turned into a cupcake once, but that had almost led to something unfortunate, so he made Lulu promise never to do it again.

"What about me?" complained Twitch, sitting on his left. "I want some of that too!"

"You're stinky," said Annie, wrinkling her nose at him. "And you always steal the cup."

"Hey now, that's not very nice," he chided.

"Yeah!" the Plague Rat chimed in indignantly.

"And Twitch, buddy, if you want something, you have to ask nicely for it," he scolded, turning towards him. "Having a meal with others is about sharing."

"...What's 'sharing?' " he asked, eyes narrowing. The suspicious little rodent.

"It's not hogging all the muffins!" broke in Lulu irritably, snatching at the several muffins Twitch had grabbed off the plate.

"It's mine!" he yelled, scrabbling for them. "I licked it!"

They could get to be such a handful.

Usually he got dragged into tea parties without Twitch coming along—but things had been a little off-kilter lately, so his usual schedule had gotten pretty mixed up. He tended to keep Twitch close, make sure the little guy wasn't offending too many people accidentally in his daily life, but generally he had afternoons for the others. It was only lately that the rat's favorite hidey-hole—that was, the refuse center—had gotten shut down as part of investigation, so he couldn't occupy himself there like he used to. Seeing as he didn't want him getting into any trouble, he figured maybe it'd be better for Twitch to try making new friends.

Disgusting as he was, he was actually kinda endearing once you got past the filth. He'd evolved from a regular rat, so Zac figured all his oddities were more or less remnants of that. His pack rat tendencies - pun aside - were definitely a layover; the first couple weeks he hung around with Twitch, he would pick up hard candies or stuff like that on the ground and lick them and stick them to his fur. "For safe keeping," he'd said. He ended up getting him the coat custom-made as a gift - the way he filled the pockets was just another means to keep him a little less disgusting.

"Mr. Zac," called Annie, breaking him out of his thoughts. He was glad he was kind of squishy, because he was sure that if he was anyone else, her little legs swinging and kicking him in the shin over and over would've hurt. "Why did all the adults go away?"

"There was a little incident last week, and everybody went home," he told her, trying to drink his milk without accidentally swallowing the cup.

"What incident?" she asked curiously.

Oh man. He didn't really want to tell a little kid somebody died. He didn't think Annie knew Diana, but he couldn't be sure. What if she cried? This was gonna be super awkward – but at least she hadn't asked him about the birds and the bees again.

"One of the Institute's machines broke down and somebody got hurt," Zac offered instead, attempting to be as vague as possible.

"Who?"

"Did you know Diana? They called her the Scorn of the Moon."

"No," chirped the little girl with blissfully ignorant ease. "Is she okay?"

"No," said Lulu. "But she got sent back to the moon, so she should be all right."

He shot the yordle girl a confused glance, but she only arched an eyebrow at him in another one of her moments of odd refinery.

"I heard there's cheese on the moon," whispered Twitch, ears pulled back conspiratorially. By now, he had the pastry plate strapped to his back.

"Maybe moon lady's snacking on cheese then," mused Lulu wonderingly.

"I didn't know you could go to the moon!" cried Annie. "Is that where they send people who get hurt?"

"No, they just sent her there because that's where she'd be okay," answered the Fae Sorceress airily, pouring herself another cup. "You know, if the sun lady had gotten hurt, she'd have gotten sent to the sun. You have to have special qualifications to get to those places."

Was that... a metaphor for the afterlife? He stared at her for a moment, more than a little baffled, but Lulu only reached for another muffin that had, thankfully, been spared by Twitch's raid.

"So, um..." He cleared his throat, trying to pick back up where he left off. "Because that machine broke down, there aren't going to be any League matches until they get it fixed."

"And that's why everybody's going home," huffed Annie, pouting. Zac patted her comfortingly on the head with a careful hand.

"Come to think of it," he mused, "why aren't you at home with your parents?" He knew if he hadn't volunteered to stick around on watch for suspicious characters, he would've gone home to his folks in a heart beat.

"_I_ wanna go home," grumbled Twitch, downing his cup of milk. He was amused to note that he had, indeed, stuck his pinky up after three afternoons' worth of prodding from Lulu.

"Soon, bud," he told him apologetically, giving him a pat on the head as well.

"Mommy and Daddy had to take a trip somewhere," explained the Dark Child, around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie. Lulu reached over with a proffered handkerchief that Annie accepted gratefully, wiping the crumbs from her face. "They said I should stay with the League until they got home."

"That means you can stay and play with us!" cried Amumu happily, and four heads whipped around to look at him. When had he become yordle again?

"Oh dear," said Lulu, with a hand on her cheek. She reached around for her staff. "You're not supposed to turn back yet, you silly duck."

Pix, who until then had been resting happily on the brim of her hat, took to the air and began circling the poor mummy in a frenzy. Amumu waved his arms around wildly, waterworks already running.

"W-wait!"

"Now hold on there," the Secret Weapon interjected, staying the yordle girl's hand by pressing down on her staff with his finger. "You could at least let him finish his tea."

Her eyes narrowed and for a moment, Zac thought she would polymorph the poor guy anyway, but she lowered her staff, returning to her muffin. Amumu was still crying, but they were probably tears of joy now that Annie was handing him one of the cookies off the stack.

He didn't know how he got dragged into these things, but he guessed he didn't mind _so_ much. Kids were kinda cute, anyhow – assuming Lulu and Amumu still counted as kids by yordle standards, of course, but that was neither here nor there - and taking care of Twitch was basically like taking care of a smelly, over-curious toddler. Things were getting kind of heavy with the Institute, so it was actually kind of nice here, being all carefree with them. Zac smiled, bringing his cup up for a quick sip as he watched Annie fuss over Tibbers. Things would be okay.

And then a scream and a loud crash in the distance cut through the air.

The Secret Weapon sprang to action, pulling himself out of his tiny chair with as much speed as possible without tipping over the entire table on his companions.

"You kiddies stay put!" he yelled, already bounding in the direction of the scream. Zac coughed, pounding at his chest as he went.

So much for not swallowing his teacup.

.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: So for the purposes of this story, I tried to resist putting author's notes because I would be tempted to ramble on and on about my thought processes, but I feel that it's good to communicate with what readers I have. Plus, if I get it all out now, I can avoid giant notes later, if the occasion ever calls.

Firstly, for those of you who reviewed, followed, or favorited, thank you very much. I'm glad to know that there are people who are indeed interested for the long run, and I hope I won't disappoint. For those of you who did none of those, but are reading this fic anyway, thank you as well. Maybe one of these chapters, I'll impress (or infuriate) you enough to warrant some feedback.

For those of you that weren't led here by the forums, I started writing this last fall, before any of the big lore changes. I'm pretty damn far in the story, so it's going to be very outdated at certain points, but I hope that's all right, and it means you won't have to worry about any big gaps in updates for as long as I have chapters. That being said, I still would like reviews. I don't want to whore out for them, but more feedback is always appreciated, so I know how much those chapters are wanted.

Thanks for dropping by.

(Do you like your stories to include author's notes? I like to communicate a little with my readers, but it tends to clutter the chapters. Future A/N's yes or no?)


	5. Poiesis

"It's very convenient that you're here, but the one I need to speak to right now is your sister," said the sheriff irritably, "so if you would kindly _move_..."

"Cassiopeia is sick right now," replied the Sinister Blade flatly. "You can ask me whatever questions you have, but you're not talking to my sister."

"And pray tell what kind of sickness does she have that is so severe she cannot carry a single conversation?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

"I don't know, but it's bad," answered Katarina. "Now say what you've got to say and go. I'm doing this for your protection too, Sheriff."

Caitlyn tsk'ed, shifting her weight onto her back foot. She had really wanted to take their testimonies separately, but she didn't think she could push her luck much further – Piltover and Noxus were hardly friendly.

"Very well," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Is it because she's sick that no one has seen your sister in a week?"

"She needs to get as much rest as possible if she's going to recover."

"I see. You haven't taken her to the Starchild, or any such thing?"

The Noxian assassin leveled her with a glare. "Like hell I would. I know what kind of grudge Ionians hold towards Noxus. I don't care what kind of good intentions she has, I'm not trusting her with my own sister."

Such hostility. Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "Yes, well. Onto the heart of the matter – where were you at the time the incident?"

"What time are you talking about, specifically?"

"One week ago, at noon. I have reports saying you two were going somewhere together?"

Katarina's lips pressed into a thin line, and the sheriff had enough practice to recognize the mask that was quickly sliding in place. The Sinister Blade was definitely trying to hide something.

"We were going to the library, to speak with the Curator of the Sands."

"Whatever for?" she asked, eyebrows raising. That was hardly what she expected her to say – given that it was the truth.

"Confidential Noxian business," answered the assassin in even tones.

"And that was all you did?"

Katarina huffed, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. "Yes. And then I took Cass back to her room. Is that all you wanted to know?"

The sheriff didn't answer immediately, remaining silent. She knew definitively that Katarina was trying to hide something, that wasn't in question. But what? With her poker face in place, it was difficult to tell which parts of her testimony were truth and which were lies... But it would be an easy matter to confirm her statement if she spoke to Nasus.

"Yes," replied the sheriff at last, hand going for her hat. "That's all." She lifted it up slightly in a perfunctory gesture of respect. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Du Couteau."

The Sinister Blade waved a dismissive hand, gesturing for her to leave. Caitlyn grimaced, turning to make the walk back. Their conversation had been singularly unhelpful, but utterly suspicious. The one thing she had learned was that, undoubtedly, something was afoot with the sisters.

Katarina crossed her arms, watching the figure of the Sheriff of Piltover quickly disappearing into the distance. The Noxian assassin heaved a sigh, leaning her back against the door to her sister's room.

"Issss s-she gone?" came a weak voice from inside.

The Sinister Blade took a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Yeah, Cass. She's gone."

"I... I need to get out."

"No damn way," she hissed in a low voice. "You stay in there, and you don't move."

"I can't live like thissss, Kat! I don't want to live like thisss."

"This is for your own good," she said firmly, hands pressed against the door as if to keep it closed. "We'll find a way, I promise."

There was silence for a long moment, but if Katarina listened closely enough, she could hear the harsh sounds of breathing.

"Kat..." the voice called out softly. "Can I at least go out for a little bit?"

"Cass," she said gently, "you know that's not a good idea."

There was no answer from the other side of the door. The Sinister Blade sighed again, straightening up to go.

"Be good," she told her, patting the door as if she were patting her sister. And still, Cassiopeia did not reply.

As she trudged down the empty hallways, struggling to keep her face neutral, she thought of her younger sister cooped up in her room and wanted to thrash someone. Katarina exhaled through her teeth, closing her eyes briefly.

It was for the best, she told herself. It was all for the best.

.

.

.

"Well, you sure got here fast, ninja," he remarked, stepping over the wreckage of the room, adding dryly, "him too, looks like."

"I sensed something was amiss," explained Shen, voice toneless.

The Secret Weapon, on the other hand, laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. The destruction of the area seemed more likely attributed to him than whatever struggle had gone on before their arrival.

"What happened?" Yasuo asked, moving around the Eye of Twilight to see what he was kneeling beside. "Oh, damn."

It was Ahri.

The Nine-Tailed Fox was completely out cold, sprawled on the ground like a rag doll. There weren't any grievous wounds that he could see, but the pallor to her skin told him something was terribly wrong. Shen had two fingers held to her neck, another hand holding up her wrist.

"She has a pulse," he stated quietly. "But it is weak. It seems she was drained of life."

"Well," said the Unforgiven, looking around the room for any remaining enemies. There was quite a bit of furniture overturned. "That's... ironic."

"Is she gonna be okay?" asked Zac, looming over him.

"I fear it may be fatal. We must take her to the Starchild," said the Kinkou ninja, gathering her up in his arms. "And swiftly."

"Give her to me," he offered, stepping forward. "I can get her there quick."

"I could get her there quicker," the Secret Weapon protested, holding out his arms.

Yasuo jabbed him in the side with the hilt of his blade, ignoring his objections. "You don't know your way around the Ionian branch, and I doubt you move as fast as the wind." He turned to Shen, gesturing to Ahri. "Give her here, ninja."

He turned her over to his care wordlessly, motioning for him to go. Were the situation not so grave, he might have rolled his eyes – damn ninjas and their silence – but the swordsman dashed off at any rate. Honestly, he was expecting a little more resistance, seeing as most Ionians bore a grudge against his traitor status, but he supposed the esteemed Eye of Twilight was above all that. Soraka should be at the Ionian branch clinic as usual – he didn't want to think about what would happen if she wasn't.

"You'd better survive, fox," he muttered under his breath, skidding to a brief stop as he made the sharp turn around a corner. Not many of the other Ionians gave him much company what with his history, and he wasn't keen on losing a conversation partner. Not when he had so few.

There were so many doors being wrecked today, Yasuo observed idly to himself as he burst into the clinic, armored shoulder first.

"My word!" exclaimed Soraka, springing to her feet. "What in the stars...!"

Whatever she had to say next died in her throat when she saw his cargo. The Starchild rushed to his side, pulling him by the arm over to one of the cots.

"Lay her here," she directed, and he did as he was told, watching Ahri's face carefully for signs of life. She was still breathing, it looked like – if only slightly. Immediately, Soraka's hands glowed, ghosting slowly over the fox's prone form. Yasuo let go of the breath he'd been holding in his throat – the color was returning to her.

"She'll live?" he asked, taking a few steps backwards. He felt compelled to give the healer room to work.

"Just barely," said the Starchild, not looking up. "She had quite a bit drained from her. If it had gone on any longer, I don't know that her heart would still be beating."

"Lucky her," he murmured.

"What happened?"

"Hell if I know. Heard a scream and came to check it out," he told her with a shrug. "The Eye of Twilight was already there, along with the Zaun Secret Weapon. Her room was wrecked."

"Ahri was attacked, then?" asked Soraka, anxiously. "Why?"

"Lady, you're asking the wrong person." Yasuo placed a hand on his blade. "I don't know anything beyond what I saw. Seems like whoever attacked her definitely wanted her dead, though."

"She has bruises on her arms," she noted, a little listlessly as she pulled back one sleeve for examination. "As if someone held her down."

He scowled, flicking the hilt of his sword so that the blade showed itself very briefly. "The coward probably ambushed her."

"What is happening?" she breathed out, disbelief in her voice. The Starchild stumbled away from her patient, collapsing backwards into a chair as if exhausted. "What in the stars is happening here?"

The Unforgiven didn't respond, looking away. He didn't have an answer for that – he wasn't sure that anyone did. There was definitely something off at the Institute, but what exactly and why, it seemed no one had any clue. Yasuo pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

Why was Ahri attacked? Was she singled out as a target, or was this some lurking killer waiting to go on a rampage? The uncertainty made him apprehensive, and he wished that matches hadn't been canceled so he could get back into his flow and calm his nerves. A blade without a battle became a restless one in due time, and Yasuo had the bitter experience to know that a restless blade rarely returned to its sheathe.

"I've done what I can for her," said the Starchild finally, after awhile, "but the damage was great. She might not awake for several days..."

"Better than her dying, I guess," he replied, words carried on a heavy breath. The swordsman shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Is that my cue to go?"

"You won't gain anything by lingering," Soraka told him, honestly. She sighed, covering her eyes briefly before gesturing for him to leave. "Go. May the stars guide your way, Unforgiven."

"Heh." He headed for the exit, the door sitting uselessly on broken hinges from his rough entry. "We'll have to see about that."

.

.

.

It was dark. So very dark.

He hated the darkness.

Why they insisted on keeping his brother in the dankest of basements, he had no idea, but it irked him in a way few things had before. Nasus kept a firm grip on his torch as he descended the spiraling stairway with slow, measured steps, his other hand keeping hold of his halberd. Renekton might not have been himself anymore, but that was no excuse to treat him so poorly. Had the circumstances been different, he might have petitioned the Institute of War for better accommodations, but alas. It would not be.

If he could steel himself, and finish what he so long ago had started, it would never have to be.

The Curator of the Sands felt his way along the passage with the end of his halberd, keeping his head bowed slightly to suit the low ceiling of the narrow corridor. The sandstone the Institute had used was Shuriman, and he wondered vaguely to himself whether the choice had been conscious. The flickering light cast red against the walls, the infinitesimal shards of quartz in the grain glimmering ever so slightly as he passed.

"Th... for... with me..."

Nasus paused, tall ears straightening. Was that... Renekton, speaking?

The librarian quickened his step, taking care to keep his feet light and silent as he strained his hearing. More murmurs were carried on the draft that flowed through the hallway, but he could hardly make out what was being said, or if there was one voice or two, or even more.

"I... why th... te you... who... at..."

The mouth of the corridor opened suddenly into a wide chamber, and all at once the whispering ceased, giving way to utter silence and deafening echoes. The flame of the torch cast but a meager glow across the expanse of the room, but it was just barely enough for him to make out what lay on the other side.

Nasus tightened his grip on the torch, inhaled slowly, and then began making his way across with calm, deliberate steps.

"Brother," he said into the darkness, pausing as he continued to move forward and the light finally found its way to polished, steel bars and he slipped the torch into a fastener on the wall, "who were you speaking to?"

There was no immediate reply at first – something almost terrifyingly bewildering in its oddity – and for one split second, he had the foolishness to hope. Then there came the familiar bellowing and thrashing, and the loud rattling of bars and chains filled the chamber with their roaring reverberations across air and stone, and reality settled upon him once more.

"Nasus!" he screamed, voice a low, guttural growl.

The Curator of the Sands simply stood there for a long moment, watching. His protective older brother. This was what had become of him. He had had centuries to come to terms with it – even longer to take action – but the first time he had decided to end his brother's empty existence had been one of the most grueling moments of his life. It had been a strange concoction of rage and relief when he was summoned by the Institute at so crucial a moment, but it had quickly given way to bitter recollections of the moment he would have to relive again.

Nasus knew that he would have to kill Renekton – it was an inevitability he had accepted long ago – but the first time had been _so_ difficult. Attempting again was even more so. The Curator knew he had to take action before Renekton was joined formally to the League so many years ago, or else the chance would be lost forever, but at that time he had found in himself a weakness he had never known could be so potent. Renekton might have become a rampaging butcher, but he was still his brother, and try as he might, Nasus could not forget those happy times so long ago. Crippled by mercy and memory, he could not bring himself to strike his brother down – and so Renekton joined the League, and became immortal in both age and existence.

But now that immortality of existence had gone. The Institute's precious respawn system had broken down and he had before him another window of opportunity to act – one that might never appear to him again. Before him, Renekton thrashed in his cell, throwing himself against the bars in a vain attempt to break free, roaring nonsensical words of endless anger.

This was not his brother.

"Renekton died long ago," he murmured to himself, holding his halberd close. "This creature is simply a vessel of rage."

The evils of men had driven him to madness and that madness had consumed him, sucked him dry until he was naught but an empty existence. It was time for him to end that empty existence.

He was tired. So tired. After he set Renekton to rest, perhaps he should follow suit...

The Curator of the Sands took a deep breath, stepping forward with his weapon in hand. Slowly, he reached out to take hold of the enchanted lock on the cell door, preparing to recite the proper incantations to unlock it as Renekton's hands clawed at him from between the bars.

And then something on the ground caught his eye.

He stopped, turning to look at it properly. It couldn't be...

The librarian knelt low and, carefully avoiding his brother's wild swipes, reached into the cell and snatched the item from between the bars.

It was a blanket – cashmere and in good condition. Hesitantly, Nasus brought it close and sniffed. Beyond Renekton's scent, there was the slightest fragrance of perfume. This could not have been something provided by the Institute.

Someone had been visiting his brother – nay, someone had been leaving his brother gifts.

He held the blanket for a long moment, examining it, whilst behind him his brother's fury seemed to grow more and more violent.

What did it mean?

"You are expressly forbidden from entering this chamber, Curator," said an imperious voice.

"...I know," he answered, deceptively calm as he turned and looked up to face the Judicator.

Kayle leveled a glare at him, arms crossed against her chest. "Leave, immediately."

Nasus did not move, gazing over his shoulder at his still raging brother. He glanced at the blanket in his hand, then back to his brother and still, back to the blanket again. Underneath the thunderous echoes of Renekton's tantrum, he could hear Kayle's wings beating steadily faster as her impatience grew.

"Do not force my hand, Curator."

The librarian exhaled slowly through his nose. "As you wish."

He held the blanket out towards his brother, who tore it from his hands with a vicious frenzy before lunging back at the bars to swipe at him again. The Curator of the Sands stood there very briefly, hand still extended before, slowly, it fell back to his side. Nasus closed his eyes, and turned away.

His opportunity had been lost again.

.

.

.

She had known they would be furious, that they would be stubborn. She had simply underestimated by how much.

Leona paced the length of the hall, stuffing down her anxiety with steady breaths. Her first attempts to approach the topic had been met with swift rejection, but she had continued pressing the matter. The Radiant Dawn had returned to Rakkor a hero, and she knew she held sway. Exactly how much was another matter entirely, but it had been enough to call the elders to court.

They were to have a hearing over how worthy Diana was to be given a proper warrior's burial. The thought of it made her want to laugh; one could hardly be judged more worthy than to have been accepted into the League of Legends, but it seemed only to matter that she was a heretic. Nothing more, nothing less.

"They say you've gone mad," said an all-too familiar voice.

Leona whirled around, startled. She'd been so lost in thought, she had overlooked the sounds of his approach.

"Pantheon," she greeted, still a tad shocked. "So you returned as well."

"Leona," he returned easily. Obscured by his helmet, his expression was unreadable, but she had known him long enough to sense the small smile dwelling beneath. "It feels as though we've not spoken in ages."

"The Institute has kept us rather busy," she observed, regretfully. "It is good to see you again."

The Artisan of War bowed his head slightly in agreement. "Indeed. Though... what is this talk of you going mad?"

The Radiant Dawn paused, debating on whether or not she should tell him. Pantheon was an old friend, but he was also fiercely loyal to Rakkorian ideals – including those of the Solari. Would he be as ill-disposed towards her proposal as the elders had been? Would he be tempted to turn his back on her as the high priest had threatened to do? What would she do if he did?

For an eternity of a second, Leona wondered.

"I made an appeal," she admitted, at last. "For the Scorn of the Moon to be granted a proper burial."

There was a long period of silence. "Ah," he said after awhile. "I see."

The Radiant Dawn frowned, glancing up at him with uncertain eyes. "Do you... believe this is foolish?"

Pantheon looked away from her briefly, crossing his arms. "Not so much foolish, as unwise... You know as well as I the likelihood of success. This can only serve to damage your reputation."

"What's important here," she began firmly, "is _not_ my reputation. What's important here is that justice is done."

"You've always loved that word," he remarked, somewhat dryly. "Justice."

"Are you making light of this?" she asked threateningly, stepping forth.

The Artisan of War sighed, the sound rattling off the sides of his helmet. He leaned down so that they were eye level, hands going to her shoulders.

"Leona," he said, with the familiarity of a childhood friend, "your efforts will be in vain. You know this."

Her eyes narrowed, shoulders already tensing as she prepared to shrug him off.

"But," he continued, pulling back, "regardless, I will offer you my support."

The Radiant Dawn froze, eyes widening as her hand shot out to seek his arm. He couldn't really mean...?

"Pantheon?"

"We will see," he began, characteristic haughtiness seeping into his voice, "if they can refuse both the Chosen of the Sun, _and_ the Artisan of War."

A smile spread across her face. With a nostalgic sort of affection, she moved close to embrace him in a grateful hug.

"Thank you. Truly."

"No matter what, I will stand by you," he told her, returning the gesture, and she could hear the fondness in his voice. "Just as when we were young."

"The dalliances of childhood seem so long ago," she remarked with a wry smile, when they both pulled away. "I remember when you were weak."

He started to make some irritable retort when the loud ringing of bells silenced him. Leona looked down the long hallway, towards the distant doors at its end. Those bells were rung for one purpose.

"It's time," she said, expression settling into stone.

Pantheon pulled on his cape so that it fell about his shoulders like a shroud.

"Lead the way."

.

.

.


	6. Praxis

"I'd really appreciate it next time if you didn't show up drunk," she sighed, crossing her arms.

"Heh, think this is drunk? I'm just a little buzzed." The Outlaw kicked back, taking a swig out of the bottle. "If you're lookin' to see drunk, wait twenty minutes."

"I need you sober, Mr. Graves," she told him curtly. "Look, all details of your motivations in post aside, you shot her and that was it? It was all business as usual up until that point?"

"Just about, I reckon," he answered, suppressing a hiccup. "That all you wanted?"

"Well, if that's really all there is..." Caitlyn grumbled, more than irritated, "then I suppose that's it. You can leave."

"Great." He took another long chug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rose haphazardly from his chair. "So long, sheriff."

"Do try not to drink so much of that," she called after him as he staggered through the door. "We'll need you alive for testimony later, and your liver has to be in working order for that."

She thought she could hear him laughing off her advice as he went, and it took all her self-control to physically will her eye not to twitch. Bilgewater lot were so troublesome to deal with – and such raging alcoholics she wondered how most of them functioned.

The Sheriff of Piltover sighed, sinking in her seat just the slightest bit. It would be nine days now since the incident, and while they'd gotten a fair amount of information, they only had but a few slivers of a lead. There had been an attack in the Ionian quarter two days ago, and she had spent all day yesterday looking into that – but the destruction caused by the victim's rescuers was impossible to tell from the destruction caused by the attacker, so investigating the crime scene had been well nigh impossible. She had interviewed the first one on scene, the Eye of Twilight, but he had seen nothing to indicate who had committed the crime. They had already fled by the time his teleport finished channeling – likely, they saw the shield and thought it best to retreat. Of course she had considered the possibility that he had been lying, but the likelihood of that was so low it could hardly be considered.

The attack was exceedingly curious, and Caitlyn didn't doubt that it was connected to the incident. The question was how. The victim, the Nine-Tailed Fox, wasn't affiliated with the Scorn of the Moon in any conceivable way, so as to why she had been the target of what seemed to be a very premeditated assault escaped her. Beyond that, the method – draining life – was characteristic of only two champions that she knew of: Jericho Swain, and the nightmarish creature known as Fiddlesticks. Because Fiddlesticks was under heavy guard by the Institution, he could be ruled out automatically, but if Swain was the culprit by process of elimination, there were far too many questions opened up for her to comfortably arrest him.

There was, of course, the Du Couteau sisters and their strange behavior. If that, too, connected back to the incident, then it wouldn't be implausible for Swain to have been the culprit. Possibly, all these incidences could have been the product of some obscure Noxian plot, but she simply could not understand what Noxus stood to gain by an extended disabling of the system, nor how Ahri tied back to it.

Caitlyn stifled a groan, sinking further into her chair as more and more questions arose. Nine days' worth of investigation, and they were hardly any closer to the truth than they were at the start. The only thing that had made any real progress was the work on the system; Ezreal and Jayce had been tasked to seek out a replacement crystal while Viktor handled repairs. The paranoiac trusted no one else with the operation of the machine – as the sheriff had heard it, he had been so suspicious during its development that the team that had been charged with assembling the system had been divided and given separate parts so they wouldn't understand it unless they made it whole.

The thing that bothered her was that that was what almost all her knowledge of the system amounted to. For being at the heart of the mystery, she could find an alarmingly little amount on it. Her weary ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door and she straightened up immediately, clearing her throat.

"Come in."

"Sheriff," greeted the Curator of the Sands. "I believe you wished to speak to me."

"Yes, thank you very much. Please take a seat." Caitlyn gestured to the chair on the other side of the table.

In all honesty, she had forgotten about her need to interview the librarian what with the chaos of the recent days. It was certainly imperative that she fact-check Katarina's statements, but the assault in the Ionian quarter had demanded more of her attention at the time. In hindsight, she was certainly glad Nasus had come on his own – she might not have remembered otherwise.

"Now, I'd like for you to tell me about your activities on the day of the incident, focusing around noon, if you will."

He nodded, folding his hands across the table with a characteristic serenity that she had always admired.

"The day progressed as per usual. I attended to my duties in the archives, and did not leave until I received word of the accident, late into the afternoon," he recited, syntax calm and deliberate. "During the midday when it was said to have happened, I took lunch in the archive's office and returned to my work."

"You saw nothing suspicious or unusual that day?"

Nasus shook his head. "Nothing whatsoever."

The sheriff frowned, tapping at her chin. Something was amiss here.

"Did you receive any visitors? Did anyone come to the archives that day?"

"Visitors?" he repeated. The Curator of the Sands seemed to stop and think for a moment before looking up again – and then he said the magic words:

"None but the Battle Mistress."

.

.

.

Her footsteps rang loudly in the empty halls, but she could hardly hear them – there was only the sound of the blood rushing in her ears, the loud beating of her heart on an adrenaline high. Vi vaulted down the corridor, speeding through the mostly deserted Noxian quarter.

They got her – _they got her_.

"Cassiopeia!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, grinding to a halt before the woman's door. "I know you're in there!"

The Enforcer breathed harshly, gauntlet'ed hands balled into fists. Oh, she was _so_ ready to get this on. Caitlyn had been running herself ragged trying to find some answers, and they'd finally found something concrete. Katarina hadn't been in her room – but there was someone they knew who'd be in their room no matter what.

"Get out here!" she shouted, after several seconds of silence.

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Vi pulled back one fist.

The door practically shattered, splinters flying everywhere as she rushed in. The Enforcer raised her hands, stance readied for resistance – but there was no one in sight. She paused, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

There was a hissing. Vi turned.

"Oh fuck!"

She threw herself backwards, gauntlets coming up to grab the huge, lunging serpent by its upper jaw. The force hurtled her to the floor and she coughed, trying to keep a firm grip on its gaping maw. It thrashed wildly, knocking her into the table, and then the bedframe.

"Ugh!"

Her head hit the wall. Vi gritted her teeth, struggling to rise as the serpent coiled around the table, circling back towards her. Was her vision getting grainy? Fuck, now was not the time. The huge snake reared its head back, readying for another strike and shakily, she got to her feet, back braced against the dented wall for support. The Enforcer pulled back one fist, charging the gauntlet.

It lunged.

She caught it by the mouth with one hand, yanking it over her shoulder and slamming it into the wall. The serpent hissed again, body flailing as it struggled to escape her hold. Her gauntlet was still charging. By now it had enough force to flatten a skull.

"Don't!" someone cried.

Vi drew back her fist.

And suddenly, there was a knife in her shoulder.

She gasped, releasing the snake as all the energy she had charged to her gauntlet dissipated. It sunk to the floor and slithered past her. Vi stumbled backwards, scrabbling at the wall for support.

"You f-fucking..." She turned her head, trying to look over her shoulder. "What the hell is going on here...?"

The Sinister Blade stood in the doorway, expression dead as stone. The serpent coiled around her feet.

"I'm sorry," said the Noxian assassin – and for one moment, Vi thought she was being honest. "I couldn't let you kill her."

"Kill who?" she snapped, leaning against the wall. Blood dribbled to the floor.

Katarina knelt down, and drew the serpent's head close.

"My sister."

.

.

.

Melting eyes. Dreaming fish. A swirling sea of blackness. Somewhere in the past – the present, or future – a slug gurgling death rose from the depths of the ocean. Rows of barren houses stood in moonlight. A rat dying of decay gasped its last.

There came a familiar voice carried on the draft, its siren song soothing, seductive. He focused, closing his eyes. In nothing, he saw everything.

A huge, lumbering creature in darkness. Glowing eyes piercing shadows. An insatiable hunger. A broken chain. Anger. Resentment. Impatience. Anticipation of a feast. Friend, foe, freedom. An opening door.

The voice paused for an infinitesimal moment of a second.

_Come,_ it whispered to him. Malzahar stood.

It was time.

.

.

.

"Now you're going to sit here, and you're going to explain what the _hell_ is going on here," snapped the sheriff, gesturing with an impatient hand at the seat across from her. "I don't give a damn about your 'Noxian confidentiality.' I want answers."

Katarina begrudgingly did as she was told, expression still set in a poker face even so. Nasus had stood and vacated his previous position, choosing to stand in the corner of the office and spectate the curious scene before him. The serpent that was allegedly Cassiopeia curled in the corner opposite, watched like a hawk by Vi, who had taken the time to wrap up her shoulder.

"It started about a year ago," began the Sinister Blade. "A few months after she joined the League. She became... different."

Caitlyn raised a single, unamused eyebrow. Katarina scowled at her.

"I mean, even _more_ different." She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "She started getting more vain. Exceptionally vain about how much she'd changed. At the time, I thought it was just trauma, but..."

"But?" prompted the sheriff.

"But then things got worse. As the months went on, she started changing – physically," she explained. "The scales got higher and higher up her waist. It was slow, so it was hard to notice, but when I stopped and looked..."

"So she was already turning into a snake, then," Caitlyn reasoned, crossing her arms.

The Noxian assassin nodded. "And everyday, she got a little closer to acting like one, too. Her speech changed. She started dragging out her s's, subtle at first. I guess it wasn't as severe as then." She shrugged, looking away. "And then for some reason, she became involved with – with _him_."

"Him?"

Katarina shot an almost spiteful glance at Nasus. "His brother."

The Curator of the Sands straightened, ears turning upwards. "She... and my brother?"

"I don't know why – maybe it had something to do with the curse – but it was almost like she was drawn to him." The Sinister Blade scowled again. "Even when I told her to be careful, and keep out of sight, she'd sneak out to see him. I think she was leaving him things."

"Then the blanket from the previous day..." muttered Nasus, in shock. The sheriff's eyes darted briefly in his direction.

"If she was still leaving him things up until yesterday, she must have still been human then," Caitlyn remarked. "If it was so slow before, how come it's progressed so quickly now?"

"Hell if I know," answered the assassin. "Over the last week, it just started to get worse and worse. She's still Cass, even if she's a full snake now, but... I don't know how long that'll last."

The sheriff frowned, pausing a moment to think. "This is all very enlightening, but none of it makes sense in context. Why did you claim to visit the Curator? What were you talking about when you said 'Now or never?' Why is Cassiopeia drawn to Renekton?"

Katarina glared at her. "There was no 'claim,' okay? I told you that I took Cass to see him, and I did. We just never got there."

"Why not?"

"Because I stopped them."

All occupants of the room looked up at the newcomer in surprise. The Battle Mistress stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Sivir," greeted the Sinister Blade, eyes narrowing.

"Katarina," she replied with equal chill.

"Why did you stop them?" inquired the sheriff, curiously.

The mercenary entered the office, eyeing the serpent Cassiopeia with wariness as she went to stand next to Nasus.

"I know better than anyone the interest Noxus has in Shurima," she told them, shooting a pointed look at the assassin. "Like hell I was gonna let them poke around with him."

"That's cute," laughed Katarina, acidly. "Jealous?"

"Watching out for what's mine," she shot back coolly, and if Caitlyn hadn't known that it was Sivir who was speaking, she might've thought that the opening line to a cat-fight. "If I'd known it'd end up turning Cassiopeia into a snake, I'd have brought wine to the archives that day."

The librarian in dispute shifted his weight from one foot to the other, frowning.

"Figures that the one time you watched out for anything but yourself," snapped the Sinister Blade, "it'd end up screwing over my sister."

"Better than letting you screw with my new business partner," she retorted with a glare.

"That was not yours to decide," said Nasus in a low voice, interrupting their argument. Sivir's head snapped up, looking at him in disbelief before her expression turned to irritation.

"I was looking out for you," she protested. "Better for them to handle their own problems than risk you getting carted off to a laboratory."

"That was _not_ yours to decide," he said again. His voice didn't betray any sort of anger, but there was an icy quality to its placidity. The Curator of the Sands seemed to look down on her with a vague air of disappointment.

The Battle Mistress seemed shocked into silence.

Someone threw open the door.

"Sheriff!" yelled a summoner, bursting in. "There's trouble!"

"What happened?" she demanded, rising immediately.

The summoner seemed to tremble, gesturing shakily backwards in the direction of the hall. "Cho'gath is loose in the summoner's quarter!"

"The Terror of the Void?" exclaimed Katarina in alarm, rising as well.

"He's on a rampage!"

That stirred them from their previous silence. The sheriff went to work immediately.

"Summoner, evacuate the rest of the Institute," she ordered, pointing at him.

"Y-yes!"

"Nasus and Sivir, take those two and get somewhere safe, I'm not done with them yet." The Curator of the Sands nodded once, gesturing for the group in question to leave. She turned to her partner, putting on her hat. "Vi, I need you to run a message to Jayce."

The Enforcer pushed herself up off the wall, frowning. "Wait, where are you going?"

Caitlyn knelt down, retrieving her rifle from beneath the table and slinging it over her shoulder. "To the summoner's quarter, to contain him."

"No way," said Vi, taking a few steps toward her. "You can't take him on by yourself."

"There's bound to be other champions there already, whoever's left," she replied, waving her off. "It's imperative that you get the word to Jayce, tell him that things have gotten bad here."

"I'm coming with you," her partner insisted, moving closer.

"Absolutely not," she snapped. "You're injured, and Soraka's not on-hand to fix that up for you. You'll only be a liability."

Piltover's Enforcer scowled, reaching out to grab the sheriff by the shoulder.

"Like _hell_ I'll be a liability. Cait, come on."

"_No,_" she answered firmly, shrugging her off as she headed for the door. "Go. Now."

"Cupcake - !" she called out after her, hand extended.

Caitlyn stopped halfway through, turning to shoot her an incredibly exasperated look. Vi faltered, as if wanting to say something and then not.

"...Be careful," she finally said after a moment, shoulders sagging in defeat. Her partner shot her a knowing look, resuming her stride.

"You too."

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* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So here's the turning point of the story, where things might start to go in a vastly different direction than some people have been expecting. On the other hand, some predicted Malzahar's interference (not that it was that hard to figure out), so it may not be vastly different at all.

As always, thanks for reading, reviewing, following, and/or favoriting. See you next time.

(Do you guys like that thing where people give one or two sentence previews for the next chapter? Is that too gimmicky? Do you prefer things as they are now?)


	7. Collapse

His feral scream rang in her ears and muddled her head, and if it were not for the fact that she could still hear the summoners' terrified shrieks, she would have thought she'd gone deaf already.

Miss Fortune staggered backwards, ducking into a doorway out of sight as she tried to catch her breath. She had unloaded everything onto him, yet he didn't even seem fazed. Even now she could feel the ground quaking just the smallest bit from his huge, lumbering footsteps.

"What," she gasped, looking at the Ionian swordsman who'd taken cover next to her, "in the high hell is happening? He was never this much a menace during matches!"

"Hell if I know," he said, crouched low to the ground. "He's eaten five summoners already, I think."

The ground shook again, and there was a sound of crunching bones and flesh and an agonized cry. The Bounty Hunter flinched.

"Make that six," he muttered, peering around the doorway. "Shit, we need to move."

She didn't even have time to ask why before the doorway was batted aside, an entire wall collapsing with it. The Bounty Hunter scrambled away from the falling debris, almost dropping one of her blunderbusses. She could hear the swordsman curse as he grabbed her by the arm, trying to haul her up. The lights seemed to fade out. She sucked in a sharp breath.

"Afraid of the dark?" growled the Terror of the Void with a guttural laugh. He loomed over them, prepared to strike. "That's my shadow."

Sarah Fortune swallowed. They were going to die.

A huge net shot out from the side, tangling itself in his claws. Cho'Gath thrashed, roaring as the swordsman finally got her to her feet. Smoke filled the air.

"The sheriff, and... Graves?" she exclaimed, adjusting her skewed hat.

"Over there," he said, pulling her towards the devastated corridor. In the distance, they could see two figures waving. "Come on, while he's distracted!"

They sprinted down the length of the corridor, bursting out of the thick smoke cloud that had arisen, and it was all she could do not to turn back and look. The monstrosity's frustrated bellows rang out behind them. Her pulse quickened with every tremor.

"He's gotten out of control," stated the sheriff grimly, not even bothering with greetings.

"We need to leave. Now," said Graves, already making quick strides away.

"Has everyone else evacuated?" inquired the sheriff, following after.

"As far as I know," the Ionian swordsman answered, glancing around.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked nervously. How could they all be so calm?

The ground was still shaking, the building was still collapsing in. He paused in his movements, looking over his shoulder at the devastating destruction Cho'Gath had wrought. The summoners' quarter was decimated – who knew how much would be left standing when the Terror of the Void was through.

"From here," he said, "it's wherever the wind takes us."

.

.

.

How many kids can a Zaun-manufactured Secret Weapon carry on the bounce?

Just two, he'd found out. The rest wouldn't hold still.

Zac bounded through empty halls, pulling along the others as a cacophony of crows pecked painfully at his heels. He carried Lulu under one arm, dragging Annie along with his other while Amumu clung to her. Twitch was latched onto his shoulders, almost like a piggy-back. The scarecrow's nightmarish laughter echoed off the walls, and he tried to take steady breaths.

A brief flash of an image flickered in the corner of his eye and if he wasn't made of goo, he might've paled.

"Whatever you do, stick together," he told them, pulling the little girl a little closer to him.

He knew they could take care of themselves – they were all champions of the League for a reason – but something was horribly amiss here, and he felt as if it were his duty to protect them. He usually played tank during matches at any rate. It couldn't be much different here, as weird as the situation was. Fiddlesticks was supposed to be locked up; everyone knew that, yet here he was running amok, and his crows hit like a truck.

Zac glanced up at a fleeting shadow along the wall and grimaced.

"Vroom, vroom!" giggled Lulu, waving her staff from underneath his arm, and suddenly he was running like the wind.

"You couldn't do that for all of us?" he grumbled, trying to steady Annie as she stumbled from his sudden speed increase. Thank god that scarecrow didn't have any way to close the gap.

"Silly Mr. Zac," she said, with uncanny serenity despite their dire circumstances. "You know I can only do it one at a time."

"There's the door!" cried Amumu, pointing at the huge, double doors that led out to the garden. From there they could jump the wall and make it out of the Institute. The mummy sprinted forth and flung out a bandage, wrapping it about the handle.

There was another flicker of an afterimage in the corner of his eye.

"Wait, Amumu, don't -!"

It was too late; the yordle pulled himself there.

He cursed under his breath. Amumu was separated, and they wouldn't move fast enough to cover him. In a normal match, the five of them could've taken them on no problem, with a casualty or two, even without items. But that was when they had chances to spare. He was the only one right now with two.

He saw the bug jump.

"Found you, beast!"

Zac whirled around in surprise, watching as Rengar lunged out of the shadows and snatched Kha'Zix out of the air. The Pridestalker snarled as his blade sunk into the floor, narrowly missing the bug's head.

"Clever creature," growled the Voidreaver, kicking him off.

Rengar laughed loudly - wildly - thumping his chest. "Let's fight, you and I! I've been waiting for this."

The sound of crows was growing louder.

He spun on his heel and kept running. If Rengar wanted to duke it out with Kha'Zix then fine, but they weren't getting involved. Not now.

"What about Mr. Kitty?" gasped Annie, struggling along.

"Worry about Fiddle first!" he answered. "Amumu, catch!"

"Hey!" Lulu squeaked.

The mummy only just caught her, stumbling through the door.

"Twitch, Annie, go!"

"What?" the little girl exclaimed, as he shoved her forward. Zac pulled Twitch off his shoulders.

"I'll distract Fiddle!" he told her, watching as the scarecrow dashed right past the brawling hunters towards them.

"No! I won't!"

"Trust me!" he yelled, shoving her forward again. Twitch was already near the door. "_Go!_"

Face scrunching up, she ran for it.

He only just had enough time to glance before a crow dove past. Its beak was sharp and _holy shit_ it hurt so much. He faltered, grasping at where it had sliced open his throat. He could hear Fiddlesticks laughing.

"Don't run! Let's have a party!"

He batted at the storm of crows. He couldn't see anything - they were tearing him up - and he clenched his jaw tight through the pain, trying to find the scarecrow in the mess.

There.

He flung out his hands in a stretching strike, feeling something brittle snap. Zac heard a hiss, and knew he'd done something right. He must have - he felt like his stomach had turned to ice.

No more bravado - it was time to run. The thunderous sound of cawing was beginning to clear; now was his chance. He anchored himself, and started to pull.

From the corner of his eye, he say a crow fly out.

The Secret Weapon sailed through the air, crashing through the door that had been left closed. He scrambled to get to his feet, collecting bits of himself as he went. The kiddies were trying to scale the garden wall.

"Mr. Zac!" exclaimed Annie, running towards him.

"Up we go," he grunted, lifting her up onto the wall. "Where's Twitch?"

"Ran away," answered Lulu, with a harrumph.

"Wait!" cried the Dark Child. "I dropped Tibbers!"

In the distance there was a loud crashing noise. The ground shook beneath them.

He hauled Lulu and Amumu up as well, shaking his head. "Sorry kiddo, but we can't go back for him now."

"But-!"

"Another day!" he said, pulling himself up and over to the other side. "We gotta go."

"They won't eat Tibbers," remarked Lulu matter-of-factly as he helped her down. "He's not their fare, right Pix?"

The faerie – who he'd forgotten about entirely – seemed to nod rapidly, but Annie was reluctant to be pulled off the garden wall even so. Amumu hopped down on his own, tripping and falling flat on his face. If they weren't in a hurry, he might've stopped to wince. The Plague Rat was still nowhere in sight.

Please, oh please let Twitch be okay.

"I promise we'll find him later," Zac assured her, pulling her into his arms. "But right now, we've got to get you back to your parents. It's not safe here anymore."

The Dark Child didn't respond, hugging his arm tightly.

"It'll be all right," he said, patting her on the head as they turned to go.

Behind them, the Institute had gone up in flames.

.

.

.

How long had she been sitting here? Had it been one, endlessly long night? Several nights without any break of day? Or mere seconds stretched by agony?

If she looked up, the sky would crack and fall on her.

There was nothing here. Only an endless expanse of chapped earth and stale air and him, sitting across from her. By now she had resigned herself to staring. If she reached out to touch him, he would turn to stone and crumble away.

He was always there again when she turned around. That was the agony of it.

"You did this," he would say, "didn't you?"

His voice was so heartbroken, she had cried the first time.

"Why?" he'd ask her, and every time she looked away. It was always the same glance, always the same green eyes, but they always wrought the same feelings. Self-consuming guilt. A burning conscience. The desire to waste away.

By now, she had stopped apologizing. After the first few tries, her heart couldn't take the futility.

"How could you be so selfish?" His voice would grow louder, harsher. More severe. It would compel her to speak. "How could you?"

"I..."

But the words escaped her. They always did.

"I can't believe you did this," he'd whisper, and then he'd cover his face with his hands. "I thought you wanted to change."

"I did!" she'd cry. "I do."

"But you haven't," he would tell her, and then he'd say it again:

"You never will."

.

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* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Kind of a short chapter, but necessary for pacing purposes. I didn't refer to Yasuo by name on purpose - didn't seem like something Miss Fortune would know or much care to.

Thanks for reading, reviewing, following and/or favoriting, as always. See you next time.

(Can you guess who the last section's POV is?)


	8. Intent

One day now. One full day since the walls of his prison had come down.

He was free.

Twenty-four hours since the roof of his chamber had split open and the Terror of the Void had peered down at him hungrily. He had been curled on the ground at the time, listening to the tremors.

Then the Prophet of the Void floated in.

"What would you say," the seer had rasped, "if I told you I could lead you to your brother, Nasus?"

"Nasus...?" he'd repeated, wearily, and then something had stirred in him – something violent, and carnal, and filling. "Nasus!"

"I will tell you where to seek your brother," he had said. "In return, leave the mortals to their own affairs."

What did Renekton care about mortals? Light meat, dark meat, it was all the same to him. Their petty conflicts mattered not. It was only Nasus, and the ill-feelings he brought with him whenever he came to mind. So he had accepted, and now here he stood, at the bottom of Mogron Pass. The Shurima Desert was just beyond its final stone steps. He had walked day and night, non-stop, slaughtering anything that crossed his path.

It was freeing, rending flesh from bone, limb from limb as he pleased. It almost filled up the strange, hollow ache in his chest. He had ripped chunks from the corpses and chewed them as he went.

Staring out across the wide expanse of desert, he couldn't help but feel that something was missing. Something very important. He had focused on his brother, and the rage it summoned within him – merely because it was the only thing he could remember, and it was the only thing that gave him something to live for.

Why he was so furious, why the Institute had locked him up so long, why he was so _empty_, he didn't understand, he didn't know. He wanted to. Nasus must have the answer, he _must_ know, or otherwise why had he such a rage towards him beyond even his comprehension?

The Butcher began descending the final few steps, glancing down at his blade in one hand, a blanket in his other. He could not remember where it came from, or how it had ended up in his cell. Roused from the fog of lethargy, he had stirred and found himself curled around it.

It was blood spattered and sand-coarse by now, buffeted by the wind and roasted in the sun, but it still smelled of something delicate and far away. Why he had taken it, he didn't know. It was familiar, somehow, and in a strange moment of clarity, he had wanted to take something that would keep him marginally comfortable.

Finally, his feet reached warm sand and he stopped. There was a howling wind, whistling through the pass. He looked out over the arid sea of sands, over Shurima, stretching out in the horizon. It felt so familiar – so curiously familiar, it was almost like coming home. Something that he did not - or could not - comprehend stirred in his chest.

Blade clenched tight in hand, Renekton entered the desert.

He would kill Nasus. He would quell this aching, endless rage.

And he would finally understand.

.

.

.

She woke to the humming of an engine.

It was dark, and she had to blink several times before she could comprehend whatever she was seeing. A concerned face, silver hair, blue skin.

"Sora...ka..." she murmured, the noise just barely escaping her throat.

Groaning, Ahri pulled herself into a sitting position as the world filtered itself into clarity. Where had she been? What had she been doing? She felt as if she had surfaced from a long dream, but... she couldn't remember what it had been about.

"How do you feel?" asked the Starchild, a hand supporting her by the small of her back.

"Fuzzy," she managed to say, rubbing at her eyes. The inside of her mouth felt cottony. "Where are we?"

"An airship, en route to Ionia."

"Ionia...?" The Fox looked around, dazed. "What about the Institute?"

Soraka didn't say anything for a moment, avoiding her gaze.

"H-how long have I been asleep?" she asked, voice wavering. Ahri got to her knees, grabbing the healer by her shoulders. "What happened? Hey!"

It couldn't be, could it?

"You've been asleep for four days," answered the Starchild at last. She paused, hands folding into her lap. "The Institute has fallen."

The Fox collapsed back into a sitting position, going white.

"No..." Her ears flattened on her head, a look of horror twisting her face. "This can't be...!"

Something cold and shuddering seized her heart.

No, no, no. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't how he told her it would go.

"All champions have dispersed in order to defend their homelands. The Prophet seeks to open the Void," explained Soraka solemnly.

"Malzahar does...?" she whispered, and the world seemed to lose color.

Ahri struggled to a standing position, stumbling over her own feet as she fought through the onslaught of vertigo that followed. The ground seemed unsteady beneath her, her legs seemed so useless, so weak. Clenching her jaw tight, she grasped at a nearby wall for support and Soraka flew to her aid, hands going to her shoulders.

It was too late to cry now, but maybe it wasn't too late to amend. She'd tried to do it once, there was no harm in trying again. Was there? No, it didn't matter. She had to make it right. No matter what, she had to make it right.

If there was one place she could go, two people she could speak to to fix what she had done...

"I need to get to Piltover!" she breathed out, words coming out in a rush.

Soraka was visibly taken aback. "Whatever for?"

"Vi and Caitlyn were investigating the incident, right?" She took a few trembling steps forward, knees shaking violently. "I can – I can help them! I can stop this."

They were working on authority of the Institute, and they would have connections and resources, and Caitlyn was smart and she would know what to do. She had to.

The world tilted suddenly and she went shoulder first into the sheet-metal side and _dammit _did that hurt. Pain shot up to her collarbone, and she winced, scrabbling at the wall to stay standing even so.

"Stop!" exclaimed the Starchild, pulling her backwards. "You're too weak to go anywhere right now, and Valoran is not safe."

Didn't she understand how important this was? How dangerous things were about to get?

"I have to get to Piltover!" Ahri repeated desperately, trying to shake off the healer's hands. "You don't understand, all of this, it's..."

She stopped suddenly, wide gaze blank. Somewhere in the deepest crevices of her mind, there echoed a familiar voice. Heartbroken.

_How could you?_

"It's what?" Soraka prompted, gently.

The Fox closed her eyes, falling to her hands and knees. One breath, two breaths - a long, trembling exhale that seemed to pitch high as if it were rolling off a sob.

"It's my fault."

Silence reigned.

That same humming that had woken her stirred in the background, bouncing off steel walls and she hated it. It surrounded her, enclosed her, it _suffocated _her, and Ahri felt as if she were suddenly very small, inside a shell of something cold and unforgiving.

Soraka's hands left her shoulders, the healer herself rearing back into a crouch. For one long moment, she covered her face with her hands. The Nine -Tailed Fox didn't move.

Within the furthest depths of her soul somewhere, in some part that Ahri was sure was human, there was a gaping, gasping ache.

"Please," said Soraka at last, sucking in a ragged breath, "explain."

It was funny – no matter how much she wanted to say, it was hard to make the words come out. There were so many things she wanted to explain, so many things she wanted to apologize for and berate herself for, and so many people she wanted to tell those things to, but she just... A word came up to her throat, and then she choked, swallowing something thick that tasted bitter and hateful and a lot like regret.

"I just," began the Fox after a long while, trembling, "wanted to change."

She sunk to the ground, nine tails folding around her like a cocoon.

Such a fool. She had been such a fool.

"He came to me and said... he'd had a vision. A-and he asked me, didn't I think it was strange that after being with the Institute for so long... and collecting so much essence, I hadn't become human?" Her words were wavering and tight, and she had to take one moment to swallow again. "I _did_ think it was – it was a little weird, but. I thought it would naturally get slower... even though I'd been collecting the same amount of essence as – as before."

"Ahri," came Soraka's voice, so tender with compassion and concern that it made her heart ache with guilt, "please tell me that you didn't..."

"He told me," she continued, as if the Starchild hadn't spoken, "that he knew why, and that he could help me. That if I did this _one_ thing for him, I could become human."

Her white tails drooped, peeling away from her as if she were shedding a chrysalis as the Fox finally pulled herself into a sitting position. Upon her face, Soraka could see how little four days' worth of sleep had done for her.

"What did you do?"

"I charmed two guards." Ahri smiled a sardonic, self-deprecating smile that brought out the hollowness of her eyes. They were shiny and raw, but there were no tears. Only the hard glint that came with self-loathing. "They would take care of everything else. I just had to keep these two guards busy for this many minutes – make sure that they wouldn't remember a thing – and he said... I would be free."

"Free," echoed the healer thoughtfully.

The Nine-Tailed Fox nodded. "Free."

"Why in the stars did you believe him?" she asked, without hostility despite the gentle chiding in her voice. "Of all people, the Prophet is hardly trustworthy."

"If anything, Malzahar is the _most_ trustworthy person in the League," answered Ahri, shaking her head ruefully. "Everything he says is the truth... you just have to understand what he's really saying, first."

"And you presumed that you did?"

"He was being straightforward then," she replied. She quirked another bleak smile. "It was stupid, and I had no idea what he was planning... But what he told me wasn't wrong."

Soraka frowned, cocking her head sideways. "How do you know?"

She paused. There was something in the back of her head - some fuzzy, far-off sort of feeling as if she had forgotten something. Ahri shook it off, and drew close.

"Notice something missing?" she asked, tapping on her cheek with one finger.

The Starchild leaned in, peering close. Her eyes widened

"Your whisker-markings... where are they?"

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* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Should clear up a little bit, but it's also another short-ish pacing chapter, so yeah. Thanks for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting as always. See you next update.

(So... Guess you know whose eyes are sorta green now?)


	9. Reprieve

"And here is the guest wing we've designated for you," she finished, gesturing with a wide arm to the hall before them.

"Thank you once again for your hospitality," he said, with another bow. His two companions standing behind him followed suit.

Lux smiled exuberantly. "No problem. Demacia is very honored to harbor the Kinkou while they remain on the mainland."

"Nonetheless," he persisted calmly, "we will make arrangements to reimburse you when these difficult times have passed."

"Not at all!" she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Prince Jarvan would be scandalized if such esteemed guests felt the need to pay for their lodging. Please, your work is important here and Demacia is only too happy to aid you."

Shen stared at her for a single moment of silence, before nodding. "Very well, if it would dishonor your prince."

"Have you any long-distance communication devices?" asked the Fist of Shadow, moving to stand next to him. "There is someone we must contact."

"But of course," answered Lux, smiling again. "Please, get settled. I'll handle it."

The three ninja bowed one last time, uttering another thank you. She waved them off as she turned to go, moving down the long halls with a slight skip in her step. It was so interesting to have guests around every now and then, despite the circumstances.

The Eye of Twilight, with his seriousness, seemed intimidating, but she had quickly learned that he wasn't cold – only curt. The Lady of Luminosity had found that it was Akali to be feared. There was a predatory poise to her that set Lux on edge despite the pleasantries. It was all-too familiar, and it brought her back to darker times in her life.

Luckily the Heart of the Tempest was there to soften to whole ensemble. She knew it was a tad disrespectful, but it was so difficult to take his energetic displays of power without finding them just a little endearing. It was probably because he was a yordle. Did that make her racist?

Normally, bringing guests around was left to a royal aide or someone more suitable to mundane activities than she, but the Kinkou were a special case, and Prince Jarvan had wanted to see that they were properly looked after. Fellow champions of the League were very prolific, and no one wanted to disrespect a visitor to their state.

"Please bring a telephone to those in the west guest wing," she called idly, flagging down a servant. He nodded and hurried off.

The mage hummed to herself, bobbing her head to an imaginary beat. The atmosphere in the castle had been heavy for quite awhile, but it was important to stay positive – at least on the outside. It wouldn't do anyone any good to mope, especially not for morale. She would leave the outward nervousness, the pacing and the anxiety to all the others. And speaking of...

"Luxanna Crownguard, seeking permission to enter," she called, knocking on the huge doors that enclosed Demacia's War Room, enchanted so that no noise could escape from the inside. They swung open after a brief pause.

She entered, Xin Zhao slamming them shut behind her as she approached the central table over which a map of Valoran was spread. Her brother and the prince were both bent over it, pointing here and there, saying this and that.

"The Terror of the Void was last seen approaching the Howling Marsh," Garen was saying, tracing the path from the Institute with one finger. "We have no information yet as to his intentions, but we do have reason to believe he may seek to deceive our scouts and turn eye towards Demacia."

Prince Jarvan nodded, grasping his chin between his index finger and thumb. "And what of the rest of the Voidborn? Were they with him?"

"Not as our scouts have seen," her brother answered gravely.

She took that brief lull in their conversation as an opportunity to sidle up beside him, tapping on his elbow to catch his attention. Garen shot her a brief, inquiring glance.

"Some guardsman in the capital have reported suspicious undertakings in the back alleys," she told him. "The remains of small, strange creatures have been found in several condemned homes. There is evidence of dark magic involved, but no arrests yet."

"Could it be a Demacian sect of that loathsome Cult of the Void?" asked the prince, frowning. "Any activity from them now would be hardly surprising."

"The captain of the city watch suspects as much," Lux replied, "but again, there is nothing concrete. He advises we stay on our toes."

"This is worrisome," remarked Xin Zhao, from across the table. "If a group of League champions could not defeat the Terror of the Void by himself, I fear for the lives of our citizens should such a monstrosity be summoned here."

"Quinn should be working with the city watch right now to investigate the matter," she offered, hands on her hips. "She told me that Valor will be in the skies almost constantly for the next three days keeping an eye out for suspicious activity."

"A fair attempt, but we cannot allow the entire capital's security to rest on the wings of one bird," said Garen, brows furrowing. "This isn't even accounting for whether or not the rest of Demacia might fall victim to the same such malevolent intent. There could be more factions outside the capital."

"That is, however, assuming that it is indeed the work of Void occultists," interjected the prince. "Do not forget, we know nothing as yet."

"But _we_ know everything," said a feminine voice, "or at least, more than you."

Lux tensed, ready to reach for the dagger in her boot. Xin was already lunging for his spear – but her brother grabbed him by the arm and yanked him backwards. Someone slunk out of the shadows.

"Akali," she breathed out, in partial relief.

"How did you get in here?" demanded Prince Jarvan imperiously, crossing his arms.

"I have my ways," answered the Fist of Shadow vaguely. "How is not important."

"We do not look kindly on intruders in the War Room," growled the Seneschal, almost baring his teeth. "Simply because you are our honored guests, do not presume to go where you please."

"Let her be," ordered the prince, an arm rising to hold Xin Zhao back from where he seemed primed to lunge again. "The Kinkou are well-respected and the times are strange." He glanced over to Akali. "I trust you have your reasons?"

"It was urgent," came her unruffled response. Her sharp glance slid side to side, surveying the room. "Shen advised I observe your customs, but I felt the relay of this information imperative."

"And so?" prompted Garen impatiently, frowning.

The Kinkou kunoichi placed her hands on her hips, shifting her weight onto her back foot. "We have just contacted the Void Walker, Kassadin. His followers have been monitoring the Void occultists, and they report a very sudden and strong flare in activity amongst them, all across Valoran."

"Then it is indeed the cult," murmured the prince worriedly.

"In addition, they have also been tracking the movements of Cho'Gath since news of his escape reached them," she continued. "According to Kassadin, he is fast approaching the Ironspike Mountains."

"Assuming this information is accurate, Cho'Gath has bypassed both Demacia and Noxus completely," noted Prince Jarvan. "We are undoubtedly the most influential city-states within reach, so then where is his destination?"

"Looking at the map," said Lux, peering over at the northern end of the continent, "there are three likelihoods: Freljord, Piltover, and Zaun."

"It is so," agreed Akali, nodding.

"Now the question is which, and why," she finished. "Neither we can say."

"What shall we do?" asked Xin Zhao, urgently. "Certainly we do not intend to stand by while the threat of the Voidborn looms over all of Runeterra."

The prince shook his head, grimacing. "Until Demacia is attacked, I cannot guarantee military action. I fear what opportunism lurks in the hearts of those treacherous Noxians."

"But we can't stand around and do nothing," Lux protested. "The whole of Valoran could be overtaken before we know it if we don't do something now."

"You won't have to commit troops to this," interrupted Akali, cutting in. "The Kinkou Order simply requests access to your resources in order to aid the Preservers of Valoran against the Voidborn."

"Resources meaning?" inquired her brother.

"Transportation, communications, and a few of your champions to dispatch to a... task force, of sorts. Ionia will also commit champions to the cause."

"What, then?" pressed the prince. "You would take our strongest soldiers? It would be nearly as damaging."

"It is true a single champion is worth at least a hundred men," she conceded with a tilt of her head. "But that is how we hope to end this conflict with as little bloodshed as possible. A single team of champions will be much more potent than an army of soldiers – particularly, if we can reach agreements with other factions to lend us their aid as well."

"It would indeed be more palatable to the other factions," admitted Garen, glancing sideways at the prince. "If any sought to take advantage of the situation, their militaries would still be intact to defend."

"So you're in agreement, then?"

Prince Jarvan was silent for a moment, stewing over the implications of the deal. Lux watched him with interest.

In her view, it was the best possible offer. Everything Akali had said seemed accurate, but being a prodigious mage did not necessarily make her a prodigious strategist, and she didn't presume to know what far-reaching complications there could be.

"It's agreed," he said at last, reaching out a hand to meet hers in a firm shake. "How many do you require?"

The Fist of Shadow crossed her arms, head tilted slightly as if in recollection.

"We would request two champions of you," she answered after a time. "No more and no less."

The prince grimaced – strangely, in a way that Lux wasn't sure she quite understood – before nodding once. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes.

"Garen and Luxanna Crownguard, I dispatch you to their cause."

The Lady of Luminosity blinked, then glanced quickly over to her brother who seemed equally as taken aback. Then his expression shifted – a swift transformation into steel.

"It would be my honor," he said, arm crossing over his chest.

"And mine," she added hastily with a bow of her head.

"Make ready your things," ordered Prince Jarvan, "and when you go forth and strike down our enemies, carry Demacia in your hearts."

"Always," they replied simultaneously.

"The Kinkou thank you for your cooperation," Akali told them, bowing deeply in the way that only Ionians seemed to. She seemed to back away as she straightened up – melting into the shadows, Lux realized with a start. Was that how she had entered in the first place? "We will discuss further arrangements with you shortly."

Then she was gone – and they were left standing in the War Room in silence.

.

.

.

Shuriman nights were cold.

His time spent wandering there in the lull between matches had taught him this. Called from a different plane of existence to this one, nowhere else on Runeterra seemed quite as close to home.

Nasus watched the crackling fire contemplatively, a large cloak settled about his shoulders. The sand seemed ablaze in its orange glow. The effect was incredibly strange in the dissonance between sight and sensation. Sivir sat beside him, wrapped up in a burlap blanket. A fair distance away was the campfire of the DuCouteau siblings. The elder had agreed to follow him so long as he promised aid to her sister. She was asleep currently, clinging tight to that very sister coiled around her so that her cool blood would stay warmed.

"It's been a while s-since I set foot in Shurima," huffed the Battle Mistress, a slight chatter in her teeth. "I don't remember it being this cold at night."

"The last time you were in Shurima, I expect you prepared the proper attire to deal with it," he replied evenly, stirring the embers with the butt of his halberd.

"I guess that's true," she muttered, looking sideways at him. "You're not freezing?"

The librarian shot her a wry glance. "Short as it is, this fur does me well enough."

Sivir rolled her eyes.

"And those two?" she asked, jerking her head in the direction of the other pair.

"Shared body-warmth, I believe." He paused, thinking for a moment on his answer when she raised an eyebrow at him. "Rather, the younger sister must be an effective insulator for the older," he amended.

"I need some of that," she muttered under her breath, and he could see the motion of her rubbing her arms from beneath the blanket.

The Curator of the Sands glanced briefly at her, considering his options. It was a semi-intimate gesture – but then, it wouldn't do to let her fall ill. He raised one arm, opening his cloak.

"Here," he said. "My warmth should be sufficient."

The Battle Mistress gave a start, gazing up at him disbelievingly. "Are you telling me to cuddle with you?"

"If that is what you wish to call it," he answered placidly, steady eyes upon her.

She scowled at him, looking away and then back again, before rolling her eyes. The mercenary reluctantly tucked herself underneath his open arm, leaning into his side as he lowered it and covered the both of them with his cloak. A spark leapt from the fire, and he stirred it again idly.

"Are you warm now?" he asked, and against his side he could feel the movements of her nodding head.

A long period of quiet passed, the air filled with nothing but the crackling of flames and the muffled cries of wildlife in the distance.

How had they gotten here, in the midst of the Shurima desert with nothing but the open sky above their heads? It seemed only moments ago that they'd been dashing through smoke-filled halls, evading all manner of miscreants run amok, but it must have been at least a few days. Nasus took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he felt, suddenly, very tired.

The Institute of War had fallen to pieces – destroyed by the very creatures it had harbored. Its proud structure had finally collapsed beneath the weight of its arrogance.

Where should he go from here?

What duty did he owe to the Institute, or the League, or even Piltover's Finest to see this journey through? What would he lose if he simply abandoned all of them that very moment?

He missed his books – but they had burned. He missed his brother – but he missed the one of a bygone era, instead of the raving vessel that had by now undoubtedly escaped. As he counted the ways, he found he had very little these days to grieve.

But then Nasus glanced down – at the head of dark hair leaning into his side. And he wondered.

"I didn't mean to – overstep my boundaries," mumbled Sivir, breaking the silence. She sounded on the cusp of sleep, poised in its embrace. "I really was just looking out for you."

"I know," said the Curator. He bowed his head, closing his eyes. "And the sentiment is appreciated – but please, consult with me before making any decisions on my behalf."

She didn't answer for a moment, and he wondered if she had finally succumbed. He could hear her sigh.

"Okay," she told him quietly. "Sorry."

In spite of himself, he quirked a small smile. She was not a creature who made amends lightly – he knew this, at the very least.

"Your apology is accepted," Nasus replied, and if he strained his own ears he might have heard the slightest tones of fondness seeping in.

She shifted, and when he looked down he saw that she had nestled herself more securely into his side. Her eyes were half-lidded, and the librarian knew then that sleep would soon be upon her.

"Hey, Nasus?" she murmured. He hummed in reply, poking at the dying fire. "You got any... questions? About... you know..."

"Are you not drowsy?" he asked, trying to remain still so as not to stir her.

"Just consider this one... free of charge," came her sedated response.

It was tempting to tilt his head in confusion, but he knew the gesture would be meaningless. He wouldn't have thought that being on the brink of slumber would incite her more charitable qualities. If the situation were slightly different, it would have been amusing.

The Curator of the Sands ruminated for a moment, before saying finally, "The conflict in Freljord. What are the motivations of each faction? The texts vary heavily from source to source."

"Ah, the ice-queens..."

She fell asleep halfway through her explanation of the Avarosa.

.

.

.

He despised forests, and he despised long treks through wilderness, but most of all he despised not having some kind of alcohol on hand to sugar the pill.

Graves squinted, shielding his eyes with one hand in a somewhat vain attempt not to get blinded by the morning sun. With a little bit of shade, he could see a road in the distance, just barely visible through the thicket.

"Found the main path," he reported over his shoulder, glancing briefly at what remained of the group of stragglers that'd emerged from the Institute's ruins.

They'd lost two and gained two. The sheriff insisted she had other business to attend to and broke off with them soon as they cleared the area. The swordsman only stuck it out with them as far as the first forest, but he set off his own once they'd hit one of the tributaries that branched off the Serpentine River – told them that he'd get to Demacia faster on his own, the slippery bastard. He probably didn't want to deal with the newcomers. Now they were more of an interesting story.

The Outlaw cast a wary look at the remaining members of their party. They met up with the first when the sounds of destruction had quieted and he convinced Fortune to come with him to check out the facility quick-like and make sure it was all empty. The second was an unpleasant surprise they'd found skulking around in the Ionian branch.

Really, if he wanted to be technical, they'd only actually gained one other person. The second wasn't honestly with them by will.

"How long do you think she can keep him bound like that?" the Bounty Hunter whispered to him, coming up on his right side.

"Well, if Miss Karma's got as much force of will as she claims," he replied lowly, "I reckon long enough."

"Why do you think he was even in the clinic in the first place?"

"Hell if I know. Was hanging around in there like he had business."

"I don't like it." She shivered, rubbing at her arms. "I remember when he first came to the League. A real nightmare, that one. Now he's loose and wandering around, and for who knows how long before then."

"Well." Graves shrugged, gesturing towards the pair behind them with the slightest nod of his head. "She seems to have him under control."

"See if it lasts," she muttered under her breath.

If he hadn't been sure that the woman in question was probably completely focused on keeping Nocturne tethered to her and completely incapacitated, he might've had qualms about yapping about her while she was standing right behind him. Regardless, she was reciting some weird Ionian incantations about a mile a minute, so he highly doubted it was going to be an issue.

The Eternal Nightmare seemed to glance at him – empty eyes that drew a shudder from the base of his spine despite himself – straining slightly against his spiritual chain. For a moment, he thought he could see a sneer, but the Outlaw shook the image from his mind. A few days out with the ghost was getting to him was all it was.

They came onto the road, finally – a gravel piece of work. Hell for horses, but good enough for walking, he supposed. If memory served, he was relatively certain it was one of the many winding paths that could get them to that high-horse mess of a holier-than-thou city-state. Even if it couldn't, wasn't like they much cared where they ended up. Graves had a feeling the Terror of the Void hadn't run off to frolic in the meadows of the wilds, and he was none too keen on seeing him again.

The only reason why they were trying to get to Demacia in the first place was because of Karma. He paused very briefly in his trudging up the gravel road to shoot a quick glance at her. How the woman walked all this way with her eyes closed was beyond a mystery to him, but Ionian mysticism was some crazy stuff. Still, she had informed them up-front that her tether would not be indefinite, and if they didn't think they were capable of putting him down, they'd better get someplace with the facilities to contain him.

Personally, he suspected she was leaving out that she was itching to hitch a ride back to Ionia via airship. If Demacians had anything worthwhile, it was convenient transportation. And liquor, he supposed, but nothing compared to Bilgewater grog – that stuff practically burned through your liver. Fortune made him try her concoctions sometimes, when she was preparing for the annual GrugMug Grog Slog.

"What _are_ we going to do once we get there?" asked the Bounty Hunter with a huff, fiddling with her hat. "I'm not like you careless lot, I still have a ship and a crew to get back to."

"Cross that bridge when you get there," he answered gruffly, not even bothering to look at her.

"And I still need new clothes!" she cried, completely ignoring his reply. "These rags are filthy." He could almost envision the pout he would see if he snuck the glance.

"Three days ain't gonna ruin your clothes, Fortune. You been on a ship - they can last at least that long."

"That's because you're a slob who doesn't give a damn about good hygiene," she shot back. "Some of us like to be clean."

"Spending a little time on the road every now and then don't make me a heathen, you know."

"Really?" Her voice practically dripped sarcasm. The woman could be so catty sometimes. "I wouldn't have guessed."

They were reaching a bend in the road now, where the surrounding forest became thick again, and the sunlight spotty. To his irritation, the morning had shifted towards noon and it was starting to get hot. He had a considerably high tolerance for heat, but that didn't mean he liked it.

On top of that, walking was just dull; nothing to look at but trees and trees and dirt with no real company for the road. He liked Fortune, really, but when she got onto her harping it was enough to make his ears bleed. Graves sighed to himself, rubbing at his beard. He just wanted to swing into some town, some tavern and eat some real food. Squirrels got old after a few meals – the little varmints didn't even have that much meat on them anyway.

"I'd fancy some chicken," he muttered to himself, gazing around at the overhanging foliage. "Or something tender, like – "

Something came bursting out of the trees – several somethings, in fact – thrashing around in the air and cawing at the top of their lungs.

"Crow," finished the Outlaw thoughtfully, stopping to watch the spectacle before him.

Fortune made a shrill kind of sound, whirling around to look as a huge flock burst from the forest. In the midst of them, a figure tore through, landing in a heap on the gravel road. A familiar hat tumbled to the ground.

"Damn he's persistent," the newcomer grunted, getting to his feet.

Graves reached slowly for his gun.

The figure snatched up his hat and brushed off his coat, looking up to greet them. "Howdy-do, fo- oh _shit_."

"Howdy-do," returned Graves with a wide grin, "_partner_."

Twisted Fate backed up, a hand placed defensively on his hat. Crows were still cawing in the distance, but the Outlaw hardly cared.

"Well isn't this a coincidence?" laughed the Card Master, and to his grim satisfaction, Graves thought he could hear the slightest tone of nervousness in his voice.

He pulled up his shotgun, giving it a good cock. "I guess you could call it _destiny_."

The false pleasantry in his former partner's face melted away into stone-cold seriousness.

"Now you listen here, hotshot, I'm in a little bit of a hurry."

"Well that's just too bad, isn't it?" replied the Outlaw, smile turning steely. "You know what I have to do."

Miss Fortune took a step back, falling in line with Karma and Nocturne. The storm of crows seemed to be getting thicker and thicker.

"Malcolm...?" she called, warily.

"Figures," muttered Fate, voice low. He scowled, spitting in the dirt. "Only two jokers in the deck and I get dealt you."

.

.

.


	10. Confrontation

"It's refueled and repaired, but if you damage it again, it could be beyond help!"

He bowed his head at the little yordle bounding around him, rising from the chair. The bitter taste of familiar vapors settled on his tongue, and he could feel the chamber of his mask fill with gas.

"Thank you," said the Void Walker. "Once more, I am indebted to you."

"Indeed you are!" he cried, wagging a wrench at him. "Calling me all the way out into the mountains for this. I have very important affairs underway in Piltover."

Kassadin sighed, adjusting the tubes coiled around him as he tried to shift the canisters back into their usual position.

"I did not want to risk the time running short," he explained, voice soft so as to reduce his characteristic, harsh echo. "It was safer for you to meet me halfway."

Heimerdinger clicked his tongue, not even looking up from where he was noisily putting his tools away. "I know that very well, Void Walker, but you _do_ realize how imperative it is I return to Piltover at once? The city must be fortified – if the Voidborn attack while we are still weak from terrorism, the results could be disastrous!"

"I am well aware," he replied evenly, moving with light footsteps over to a nearby table where he had left bits and bobs of his armor. "You are free to return immediately, if you so desire, professor."

"And leave you to mishandle my contraption right out the door?" The yordle dashed behind him, and Kassadin could feel the pull as he flipped down the small lever under the canisters with a hop. "That is an _extremely_ complex cocktail of regenerative chemicals and if you do not set the pressure regulator on the results could be disastrous!"

"As you are so fond of saying," he muttered under his breath.

"It's been years since I fit that device to you and I _still_ have to remind you. You _must_ be more careful with this equipment!" scolded Heimerdinger, returning to his packing.

"Rest easy, professor. I will be."

"Hm-_hm_! I hope so," he huffed, crossing his arms. It was incredible how touchy the scatter-brained inventor could get when it came to any of his creations. "I take my leave. Do take care of yourself, Void Walker. It seems to me that Valoran is going to need you."

"I sincerely hope it won't," sighed Kassadin, closing his eyes very briefly. "But I will do as you say."

"Good," said the yordle with a decisive nod, and he took up his toolbox and bounded off with that peculiar, swaggering walk of his.

He waited until he heard the door shut to begin pulling on the armor he had shed.

It wasn't that he didn't respect the Revered Inventor – because he did. In fact, he was quite fond of the yordle. After all, he owed him his life, and their occasional meetings had always been an interesting reprieve from his usual business.

It was just that Heimerdinger was so difficult to be around when he was stressed, and Kassadin could only tolerate so much of his nitpicking. He knew that it was an incredibly critical time in Piltover, what with the current state of Valoran, and the Institute of War. Getting called away for a personal matter – no matter how related it was to the crisis at hand – must have been incredibly vexing, especially having to be so discrete about it.

No matter what, however, the Void Walker could not afford to reveal his weakness.

Most assumed that the influence of the Void within him was held at bay simply by force of will – that he had absorbed its alien power and was fighting an everyday battle to resist it. In reality, this was only partly true. The Void's influence was indeed an incredibly strong force inside him; an aching, pulsating grasp on his insides whose call he had long disciplined himself to resist. It was more the fact that the power that had infected him was eating him from inside out that posed a problem.

Kassadin slipped his hand through one gauntlet, making a fist as he pulled it secure. He looked down on his scarred palm, his calloused fingers, the skin pale blue, the nails black. By now, he was more or less a dead man walking. He had heard the whispers behind his back down long corridors, but they were wrong; a part of him didn't die when he let the Void in – all of him was _constantly_ dying.

The only things keeping him alive were the canisters on his back, the gas flooding into his mouth and nose and filling his lungs. The "complex cocktail of regenerative chemicals," as Heimerdinger so called it, was constantly renewing his cells, keeping his body on the edge of life. If it were to ever be depleted, he doubted he would live an hour beyond his last breath of it. The Void had gifted him with incredible powers, but its strength threatened to consume him entirely.

He was tired. He was so, _so_ tired, and on certain days where the world seemed exceptionally bleak and another one of his followers had perished to the cause, he had placed a hand on his mask and considered ending it. It would be so simple, so easy to tear it off and die breathing fresh air.

But then he would remember – there was so much left for him to do – and he would decide: he wouldn't die yet. He couldn't.

Malzahar had made another move at last, after that catastrophic encounter so many years ago where his last precious thing in this world had been taken from him. The Voidborn had been set loose from the Institute of War, and Kassadin could count the hours until chaos would erupt. He had already gotten in contact with the Kinkou, already mobilized his followers, already set his pieces into place – but he was still so far behind the Prophet. The damned seer was always several steps ahead, the Void Walker knew it, and he knew that Malzahar knew he knew it too. It was just another part of their never ending game of cat and mouse.

Kassadin pushed open the door to the borrowed hut, abandoned in the mountains. The sun was high. The light was harsh.

It was time for their game to end.

.

.

.

He hadn't known what he'd been expecting when he'd heard the name "Voodoo Lands," but it certainly hadn't been anything this... homey. There was a whole settlement out here, little houses and all.

"I guess Mommy and Daddy are still gone," she said, fishing a key out of her pocket and unlocking the door. He wondered if Annie kept it with her all the time. "I don't think they'll be mad if I have friends over."

It was a strangely idyllic cottage. The Secret Weapon would have thought that with a daughter like Annie, her parents would have opted out of the temptingly flammable thatch roof, but no – it was there, along with the charming, fairy tale brickwork. There was even a little picket fence.

"Come in, silly!" called the Dark Child from the doorway. He hadn't noticed he was the only one still outside.

Zac trudged in slowly, minding his head. The ceiling was particularly low, but he supposed he should have figured as much. The furniture inside seemed like it was themed to look as comfortable and family-friendly as possible. The sheer cosiness of its arrangement – fireplace, rocking chair, bookshelf, rug and everything – was insurmountable. It was like a scene pulled straight out of a children's book.

Except, of course, it was Annie's living room.

Lulu was already settling herself into a huge armchair, bouncing on the oversized cushion. Amumu had followed the Dark Child into the kitchen. Zac peered around the corner into the doorway, watching as the little girl climbed up onto a stool and pulled open the fridge.

"You have electricity out here?" he asked, disbelievingly.

"Are we not supposed to?" she replied, blinking once. She continued her rummaging through the fridge.

"How old's that food?"

"A few weeks. Maybe months." Annie shrugged, taking out a carton of milk. She looked over her shoulder at Amumu, shaking it. "D'you want some?"

"Yes, please!" He nodded eagerly, hands clasped together.

"Hang on a minute there," cut in Zac, snatching the carton out of her hands.

"Hey!"

He paid her no mind, opening it up and taking a whiff. Smelled fine – but then, he remembered - he didn't have a nose. The Secret Weapon took a quick sip.

"Ew!" she cried, scrabbling at him to get at the carton. "That's bad manners, Mr. Zac!"

It tasted fine too. How could food this old be A-okay? Milk tended to go bad in a few weeks, from his experience. Then again, until not so long ago he'd been living in a sewer...

"Just makin' sure it wasn't poisoned, kid," he told her, handing it back. "There you go."

"It's _not_," she said, matter-of-factly. "Nobody gets in the house unless they're me or my mommy and daddy."

"What about us?" asked the mummy, bewildered.

"Well, I _let_ you in," explained Annie, rifling through some cabinets.

Zac paid little mind to their conversation, opening up the fridge to take a look. It was practically stuffed with food – and all in perfect condition. No normal fridge functioned like that, he knew from experience. Curiously, he peered around at its back. Embedded in a kind of circuit around the back of the refrigerator were small, minor arcane crystals.

"It's powered by magic," he murmured to himself, in realization. "I didn't even know you could do that."

"Oh, that?" she said, noticing his interest in the fridge. When he turned to look, she had a cup full of milk and a little, white moustache. "Mommy bought it from some selling people, but she said she didn't like it and that's why she made it pretty."

"Custom-made, huh?" The Secret Weapon reared back to look at it in full, giving the top a light pat. "That's pretty cool."

"You can't have it," the little girl stated in clipped tones. He laughed.

"I don't want it, kid, don't worry." Zac looked around the kitchen. "So you got any snacks around here?"

"Just look around. I don't think Mommy will be angry if you take stuff," Annie answered easily, marching back to the living room with a bag of chips under her arm. He could hear the sounds of it tearing open, Lulu's delighted "Yay!" and Pix's buzzing. He could also hear the thump Amumu made when he tripped and spilled his milk.

He had to grin when he heard the bawling. It was just like a normal day back at the Institute. If only Twitch were here.

Lulu swept into the kitchen then, harrumphing as she went. He stifled a chuckle; the front of her robe was soaked.

"The nerve of some people!" She pushed the same stool Annie had been using over to the sink, clambering up on top of it.

"It was an accident, kid. Don't take it too hard," he told her.

"I don't have any clothes to change into," lamented Lulu, scrubbing at her robe to get out the milk residue. Her eyes wandered upwards to the flowers outside the window. "Eep!"

The next thing he knew, there was a yordle in his arms. When Lulu had scrambled up there he had no idea, but she had her face buried in his chest, hands clinging to his shoulders.

"Uh... Lulu?"

"Tulips," she whispered, clutching tighter.

"What?"

"Tulips, you sillyhead!" yelped the Fae Sorceress. "Don't look them in the eye!"

Not this again. Zac heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes. "I got this," he said, reaching over and pulling the curtains shut. "There. No tulips."

"Perfect!" she cried, springing out of his arms as if nothing had happened. "You know Mr. Zac, I always figured you were too tall, but you're all right after all."

"Um... Thanks, I think."

"It makes you perfect for fighting monsters, after all," she continued, as if he hadn't said a word. "Why, even if that nasty Cho'Gath took a bite out of you, you'd still stand a fighting chance!"

She noticed he wasn't paying attention and pouted, jabbing him in the thigh.

"Ow!"

"I'm serious!" she insisted, crossing her arms. "That's a big compliment, you know! Cho'Gath ate nine summoners the other day."

"He did _what_?"

"Don't you know why everything went boom at the Institute?" she asked, eyeing him disdainfully.

"As far as I knew, that crazy scarecrow and some freaks got loose," he replied, shrugging.

"Old stink-eye let Cho'Gath loose!" said Lulu. "Pix told me so!"

He had no idea who the heck "stink-eye" was, and he didn't really want to find out. Zac arched one disbelieving, nonexistent eyebrow at her. "Is that so?"

"And he went _craaaaazy_, and that's why all the buildings went down. Really!" The Fae Sorceress was bouncing on her heels by this point. "Pix never lies to me!"

Well, actually that was a little bit concerning. He'd known there was something huge going on at the Institute, but huge enough that the Terror of the Void got out? He was a lot more glad he'd gotten them out of there now than he was before. The mental image of one of them being crunched down on by that Void monstrosity was chilled his goo.

"You're not concerned at all?" he asked, looking at her curiously.

"About the big bad Cho'Gath?" Lulu smiled, almost mysteriously. "I'm not worried about him, but you might be."

He frowned. "Why's that?"

"Pix says he was heading north, you know? He could've been headed to Freljord, or Piltover, or..."

"Zaun," he finished, and if he had skin, Zac probably would have paled.

"Are you going back?" Somehow, he didn't really like her smile anymore. It just seemed... out of place. "Or are you staying here? Or are you going nowhere? Or everywhere?"

"Lulu, please. I need to - " He cut himself off, trying to think.

Should he go back to Zaun and make sure it was safe? Or stay here and look after the kiddies? On the one hand, he had to make sure his folks would be okay, and even if that place was a total rathole, he still considered Zaun his home. Someone had to look out for it – he doubted if any of the local nutjobs would. Twitch had probably run off there too, and if things got messy, the little guy could get hurt. On the other, he couldn't just leave the kiddies by themselves. Amumu was a walking accident machine, and Lulu was probably a bad influence on Annie. Not to mention, he didn't know if Annie could manage to not burn the house down without her parents around.

"I'm going back to Bandle City to visit a friend tomorrow," the Fae Sorceress informed him. So that was one out of the equation. "If you trust her with the dummy..."

Well. Maybe the nutjobs would go crazy on Cho'Gath anyway.

"I see your point," he conceded, sighing. Zac rubbed at his temples. "Although, I dunno how long I can handle this."

"Re_-lax_, I'm sure it'll all blow over in a week. Maybe two," she told him airily, waving a dismissive hand.

He could feel a migraine coming on, and he groaned, hands covering his face.

"For everyone's sake, I hope you're right."

.

.

.

Vi had never hated the sound of dial tone more in her life.

The Enforcer slammed the phone back into its holder, almost crushing it in the process. The office practically shook from the brute force.

"Look at me, I'm the sheriff," she mimed, accent particularly obnoxious, throwing up one pinky for good measure. "I never give up on a lead, even when it's just a hunch and there are crazy monsters out there that could eat me! Aren't I just the best?"

She growled, kicking one leg of a chair in frustration.

"...I'm guessing she didn't pick up then," remarked Jayce from the other side of the desk, vaguely amused.

"Ugh, it's been two days since she called!" she groaned, throwing up her hands. "She didn't even tell me where she was going."

"Relax, I'm sure she'll be all right. I mean, it's the sheriff we're talking about here. She can handle herself."

"Says you, Lantern-jaw," scoffed Vi, pointing a derisive finger at him. "You think _Ezreal_ is tough."

"What does that mean?" asked the Defender of Tomorrow suspiciously, eyes narrowing. He crossed his arms. "Ezreal can hold his own - he got the crystal we were looking for, didn't we? Didn't even need my help."

The Enforcer smiled thinly. "I think your ego's showing, bud," she cooed, voice sickeningly saccharine. He rolled his eyes.

"Either way, Caitlyn can manage just fine," asserted Jayce, waving a hand. "You worry too much."

"I do _not_."

"Yeah you _do_," he insisted, kicking back in the chair. "Every time the sheriff goes solo for a little bit, you make a huge fuss about it like she's going to get killed right out the door."

"Well she's – _squishy, _you know?" He raised an eyebrow at her and Vi turned bright red, glaring. "Not that way! If they get up close and personal with her, Cupcake gets wrecked."

"But they won't, because she's smarter than that. She'll. Be. Fine." He swept his feet off the desk, straightening up. "Besides, we have to worry about Piltover, not the sheriff. If that maniac is still running amok when Malzahar's little friends come knocking, things'll get bad."

"You don't have to tell me that," she said indignantly, crossing her arms. "The entire reason I'm not with Cupcake right now is 'cuz you and I have to take care of it."

"So let's do that then. What're we going to do about Jinx?"

"What, are we not going to smash her face in?"

Jayce sighed, rolling his eyes again. "Have you not tried that a million times by now?"

"It has to work one of these days," she told him, cracking her knuckles.

"We kind of have to catch her first, which, judging by the state of the treasury last month, hasn't worked out too well for you guys," he remarked dryly, looking over his shoulder out the window. Piltover's many skyscrapers still had holes blown open where the Loose Cannon had left her message.

"Hey buddy, if you'd been around to help us out instead of tagging along with your boyfriend trying to find a fairytale, we coulda caught her right then and there," she snapped.

"Whoa, hold on now," said the Defender of Tomorrow, rising from his seat. "I don't care if you call Ezreal my boyfriend, but Icathia is _not_ a fairytale. The pieces we brought back for the museum were more than conclusive."

"Nice to know you got your priorities straight," Vi noted snidely.

"You can't call it a fairytale after meeting both Malzahar and Kassadin, not even you can be that thick."

"Well what the hell is it supposed to do for us anyway? Huh, Mr. Scientific Progress?" she asked, jabbing a finger at him. "Great - some old magic shit and a fuckton of dust! Way to bring us into tomorrow!"

"Science and magic go together great," he protested. "And imagine being able to one-up Zaun on discovering a lost city!"

Neither of them had noticed their conversation straying wildly off topic – Vi's cutting retort was interrupted by the sudden rush of static that poured from the radio on her belt.

"Officer Vi, come in."

"That's me," she said, snatching it up. "What's up?"

"We have some civilians reporting a situation in the town square. Group of unlicensed summoners, it looks like."

"They dangerous?" she asked, going for the door.

"Unknown, but they seem to be trying some kind of mass summoning. Officers have been cautioned, citizens evacuated."

"I'm on my way." She looked over at Jayce, gesturing with a jerk of her head as she opened the door. "Never mind your dumb projects. Let's go."

He sighed, hefting up his Mercury Hammer from where it was propped in the corner. "Yeah. I gotcha."

.

.

.

"Eight years ain't a big deal!"

"Maybe not to you – you never spent any time in the locker!"

"You came out just fine, didn't you?" yelled the Card Master, hitting the ground with a grunt as he rolled out of the way of another buckshot. "Forgive and forget, i'n't it?"

"Forgive my ass," he snorted, firing off another round. The slippery bastard was dodging every shot. "Why in tarnation don't you hold still, you damned rat? I like moving targets an' all, but why not make this quick?"

"Like I'm just going to let you kill me," he growled, flinging out razor-sharp cards with a flick of his wrist. Graves lunged to the side, narrowly avoiding one that would have cut his throat open. "I still got places to be, people to see."

There was something loud ringing through the air – the cawing of crows, was it? He had no idea, he was too focused on what was happening before him. The Outlaw cursed underneath his breath, trying to sidestep another set of wildcards as one sliced his cheek. Why was it getting darker?

"Graves!"

That voice wasn't Fate's.

He whirled around, eyes snapping to where Miss Fortune stood by Karma and Nocturne. She pointed to the skies. He and Fate looked up at the same time.

Crows. A huge storm of crows filled the sky, blocking the daylight.

"He's here," hissed his former partner, hand flying to his hat as if to brace himself.

"Fortune! You take Miss Karma and skedaddle outta here!" he barked. "This is gonna get ugly."

"You can't expect me to just leave you two stupid men!" she screamed back, voice barely carrying over the cacophony of cawing. He thought he heard the bang of her blunderbusses, and two birds dropped like bricks.

"You need to look after Miss Karma! Make sure the monster don't get loose!" he yelled at her, waving with one arm. "Go!"

The Bounty Hunter shook her head, taking one step forward. "You need my help! He'll kill you both!"

The crows were beginning to descend, and he held his shotgun at ready. Dammit, why wasn't she leaving?

"I said go!"

"No!"

"_Sarah_!" he roared, firing into the thick storm.

"You'd better survive you fool!" she hollered, and just barely he could make out her form as she grabbed Karma by the wrist and took off running. The bang of her blunderbusses sounded just barely over the storm.

The birds were vicious little varmints.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to get off as many rounds as he could. It was like death by a million paper cuts – their damned beaks and claws were sharp as all hell, he felt like his skin was getting shredded to ribbons.

"Didn't know you got yourself a sweetheart!" yelled Fate, over the noise. "Awful cute there, Malcolm."

If he hadn't seen that the Card Master was getting torn up as well, he might've considered putting a bullet in his skull right then and there.

There was a sound like laughing now – harsh and croaky like their voice was getting stuffed up a bag of hay. Somehow, his heart dropped to his stomach. A feeling of cold dread washed over him, and he swallowed hard so as not to throw up.

There was a figure standing in the middle of the road. The storm was clearing, but whether that was because they had murdered so many of those damned birds or because they were getting called off, he had no idea. Graves stumbled forward a bit, fighting off the wave of nausea flooding him. The corpses of crows crunched under foot.

"Found you," came the inhuman whisper.

"If it ain't the scarecrow," coughed Twisted Fate, struggling to remain on his feet as well. "Long time no see."

"This is what you were in a hurry about?" asked the Outlaw, trying to hold his gun steady. Damn, there was a lot of blood. Had he been cut up that badly...?

"Heh. He was damn persistent, chasing me out from the middle of nowhere," huffed the Card Master, hunched over. From the corner of his eye, Graves could see his hand behind his back, shuffling through cards rapidly.

"Are you afraid?" said the Harbinger of Doom, crooked smile stretched wide. "Don't worry, I won't bite. I can't."

He laughed loudly, and suddenly the Outlaw felt as if his heart had frozen over. There was the strangest feeling of abject terror. He wanted to run away.

"Eyes up, Malcolm," muttered his former partner, drawing a card. "Thorned rose."

It sunk itself into the scarecrow, splitting open his seams with a loud tear. The fear faded somehow – he had control again, and immediately Graves raised his gun, squeezing off a buckshot. The bullets punched through burlap and straw like nothing, but Fiddlesticks seemed hardly fazed.

Of course. It was that damned effect Fiddlesticks had, he should've known. It felt like every inch of his skin was aflame - must've been the cuts - and he gritted his teeth, continually firing at the Harbinger of Doom. He just took it like it was nothing. Sack and straw didn't bleed.

And then Fate was on the ground, scrambling backwards like he'd seen the devil.

"The hell're you doing?" he yelled, dashing towards him. It wasn't that bull terror again, was it? The Card Master opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. "What in the - !"

A crow flitted past, nipping him at the neck and damn near slicing his throat open. Graves lunged, snatching it out of the air and throwing it to the ground, but the blood was already trickling down his neck and no matter how much he wanted to yell at Twisted Fate to move, somehow he couldn't force the sound out.

A bright, ethereal leash appeared between Fiddlesticks and the Card Master, and struggling towards the Harbinger of Doom, Graves could see the holes he'd punched in him rapidly sealing.

"Keep trying," mocked the scarecrow, taking every shot with a grin.

The Outlaw mouthed a curse under his breath, falling to his knees.

Damn, there was a lot of blood on the ground. Was that all his? Graves blinked, trying to clear away the fuzziness in his vision. There was a roaring in his ears, and he thought, maybe, it was just the blood rushing through. But then he heard that awful sound again: the cawing of crows.

"He can't... have it back.. already...?" he groaned, voice returning to him. The scarecrow stood taut, arms outstretched. Goddammit, he was going to finish them off with one crowstorm.

"Malcolm," gasped Fate, propping himself up on his elbows.

The sky became dark again. The light was fading, and he wasn't sure if it was because of the damned birds, or blood loss. The Outlaw turned, trembling, to look at his former partner. Twisted Fate held a card in the air, the sunlight glinting gold off of it.

The crows descended.

It was like another whirlwind of razor beaks and claws, and he struggled against it to get to his feet. There was a bright flash – he watched as Fiddlesticks flinched, stopping in place. Beyond the surge of birds, it was a perfect shot.

Graves loaded the slug, cocked his shotgun, and fired.

.

.

.


	11. Revelation

"So I led Cassiopeia here," said the Battle Mistress, tracing one finger across the leather map spread over the sand, "and it was in this structure that the curse happened."

The three of them sat around the map in the shade of a dilapidated pavilion. They'd stumbled upon it while continuing west and thought it a good place to stop and rest. In the distance, Cassiopeia coiled around a tilted column.

"The Serpent's Embrace was cursed in Shurima?" asked Nasus, surprised. "Was it not a Freljord diplomat who transformed her?"

"A cover story," answered Katarina, lips pressed together in a thin line as if it irked her to say so. "Noxus didn't want people knowing about our activities in Shurima."

"They paid me a lot of hush money to keep quiet, that's for sure," Sivir chuckled, ignoring the assassin's glare. "Of course, that was after they tried killing me."

"What was it that Noxus hoped to find in Shurima?" He had never seen any signs of them when he had wandered amongst the ancient ruins of the cities. Had they been so covert as for him not to have noticed?

"What Noxus is always looking for," explained the Battle Mistress breezily. "Power."

She paused, shooting a pointedly inquiring look at the Sinister Blade. Katarina raised one deadpan brow in reply, crossing her arms. Sivir rolled her eyes. As fascinating as their nonverbal communication was to watch, Nasus had the distinct feeling that he was being hopelessly left behind.

"Right. So," she continued, as if the brief intermission had never occurred, "I was guiding her through this tomb, very promising, when she didn't listen to me and set off a trap. What happens after I think you can guess."

"Miss Du Couteau mentioned that she and her sister attempted to seek me out." The Curator of the Sands turned a glance at the Noxian assassin curiously. "Why?"

"Beyond being a creature of immortal origins and keeper to a plethora of knowledge," she began, tone only slightly dry, "I knew you spent a lot of time in Shurima. I figured you would be our best bet."

"And so now, we seek the very tomb that cursed her in hopes of finding a solution?"

"That's the gist of it," affirmed Sivir, snapping her fingers. "Much as I'd love to leave her like that – "

"Don't even _think_ about that."

"– I've always wanted to see what was left," she finished, with a sharp smile. "A lot of it collapsed in on top of us, but most of it should be intact."

"That significantly lowers our chances of discovering anything that may aid her, however," noted Nasus, frowning.

The mercenary shrugged, rolling up the map. "We'll just have to take what we can get."

"For your sake, it'd better be good enough for Cass," muttered Katarina underneath her breath. She got to her feet, brushing the sand off her pants. "Do you two... see that?"

The Noxian assassin pointed off somewhere in the distance, taking a hesitant step forward. On the horizon, a silhouette, made dark by the bright back-lighting of the sun, approached. There was something familiar about the bow-like shape they were carrying. Nasus rose.

"I'm not hallucinating from that cactus we drank earlier, am I?" she asked, warily.

"If you were hallucinating, we'd all be," muttered Sivir, coming to stand beside her. "But I do see something. A figure?"

"My brother," corrected the librarian gravely, putting a hand on the mercenary's shoulder and pulling her back slightly. "We should go."

"What do you mean 'go?' " she demanded, shrugging him off. "The three of us are more than enough to kill him."

This was true, certainly, but despite his earlier willingness to put his brother to rest, Nasus now felt within him a peculiar unease at the notion of it. Perhaps his brother was not so totally empty, nor utterly controlled by his rage as he had once thought – after all, he had somehow forged a friendly relationship with the Serpent's Embrace. Could there be salvation for Renekton after all? If there was, could he deny him that chance?

"Too late to run now," said Katarina, dashing off in the direction of the fast approaching silhouette. "Cassiopeia!"

Sivir cursed under her breath, and followed after. The younger Du Couteau sister had slithered out to meet him.

.

.

.

She was drowning.

"Why the _fuck_," she bellowed at the top of the lungs, "did you do this?"

She thought she heard laughter; she couldn't tell over the screeching.

Voidlings – voidlings, everywhere. They were swarming her, and no matter how many she crushed in her hands, how many she stomped into the ground, it was like they never. Stopped. Coming.

Vi growled, tearing one in half. Those goddamn Cult of the Void creeps. Were they spillovers from Zaun? Where in the hell were they, and why couldn't the police force seem to find them?

"Where are they coming from?" she gasped, trying to shake off the ones that had crawled up her legs. They were skittering up her stomach now and it was disgusting.

There was a controlled boom and a bright flash. "There's some kind of – some kind of tear in the middle of the square!"

"What, like a tear in clothing?" the Enforcer yelled back, stumbling on the voidlings skittering across the ground.

"I guess!" answered Lantern-jaw, and when she looked over she could see him covered in guts. "It's like some sort of portal to the Void, I think."

"Can you close it?"

"We have to –" He stumbled mid-sentence, catching himself on his Mercury Hammer and crushing one voidling on the way. "We have to kill the one keeping it open, I think!"

Vi cursed underneath her breath, flattening one of the little monsters with her palm as she knelt and tried to catch her breath. There were still so many left in the swarm, it was almost dizzying, and thank god she was durable as _fuck_ because they were still climbing on her, sinking their little teeth in.

"Those bastards could be anywhere by now!"

"Just hang on!" yelled the inventor, swinging his hammer in a wide arc. "I think it's getting... smaller?"

"What?"

"It's shrinking, I dunno!"

She couldn't see the damn thing, and she wished she could because apparently Jayce sucked _ass_ at explaining things on the fly. Vi looked around frantically, trying to track the movements of the voidling swarm. They were rushing out of the square as fast as they could, but it didn't look like many of them got out. Sometimes their officers were stupid little fucks, but at least they knew enough to form a perimeter.

An explosion rocked the ground. Then multiple explosions.

The Enforcer landed heavily, slipping on the guts and blood of the little monsters. There was a shrill laugh.

"Look what I found," said someone in sing-song.

"I do _not_ have time for your shit right now, you crazy bitch," she grunted, hauling herself up.

The horde had thinned, but there was still a little trickle of them. She could see the tear Jayce had been talking about – a wispy, purple-y thing that looked hella bizarre when she stared at it too long. It was like gazing into one of Syndra's dark spheres for longer than a minute.

It was fucking tiny.

"Calm _down_, Fat Hands. I'm here to help." When she looked up, she could see the nasty grin on Jinx's face. Her doped up eyes still looked crazy a rooftop away. "Look what I brought you."

The maniac had someone's hood in her hand, and she slung him off the edge of the roof. He landed with a loud crack. Vi thought she could see the blood starting to pool.

"Oh. Oops."

"What the _fuck_?" she yelled, rushing over to the body. Jayce was already there.

"Already dead," he said, shaking his head regretfully. He shot a glance over at the middle of the square. "The tear's gone."

"He was the last of 'em," Jinx told them with a careless shrug. "I thought you'd want him to talk or something, buuuuut I guess that's a no-go."

"Why are you helping us anyway?" demanded the Enforcer, baring a clenched fist. "Thought this 'wreck the city' shit would be right up your alley."

"As hi-_larious_ as it would be to watch you two wussies get eaten up," she began belligerently, hands on her hips, "I hear these Void punks wanna blow up the world. I thought it'd be fun until Fishbones mentioned no more world meant no more chaos – and no more chaos means no more fun!"

Jayce stared for a full moment before shooting her a sidelong glance. "This is the crazy you were talking about?" he whispered to her.

"Take a guess," she muttered back.

"I heard a little screaming and was like, 'Who's messing stuff up without me? That's my job!' and I came to check it out and found these guys running around. So I killed them. You can find the rest of them..." She looked back and forth, hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. "...Somewhere."

"We, uh, appreciate your efforts, but now that he's dead, we don't have anymore leads," shouted Lantern-jaw, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Not my prob anymore, Hammer-face," Jinx replied, shrugging. "I'm just here to stop things from blowing up by blowing them up."

Jayce made a gloriously confused face, and for one eensy, weensy second Vi thought that, maybe, the crazy bitch wasn't so bad. It was incredibly short-lived.

"Right, uh..." He rubbed the back of his head, and she held in a smirk when he stopped to look at his hand and shuddered at the sludge it was covered in. "Thanks, I guess?"

"Nooooo problem," she sang, rocking on her heels.

"But where the hell do we go from here? The freaks are dead, and we don't have a clue why they were even here to begin with," the Enforcer pointed out, crossing her arms.

"What do ya mean 'no clue?' You only gotta look."

Jayce frowned. "Look where?"

"The big guy, with the teeth and the four arms," she said, pointing somewhere off in the distance over Piltover's wall. "He a friend of yours?"

...Four arms?

Vi blanched.

.

.

.

It looked strange. So very strange.

At the water's edge, she stood and peered out over into the murky depths of the sea. It had felt like ages since she had been in the ocean, but Nami could not help but feel there was something off about it. There was an empty quality to its turbulent tides.

She had been loathe to return without a moonstone, but now that the Institute had fallen, there was no choice. There was nowhere for her to be now, and she couldn't keep her people waiting forever. Better to get bad news than no news at all, the Tidecaller figured.

Still, there was an odd reluctance in her to set fin into the coming waves. It should have been as familiar as the waters of home, but somewhere in a distant part of her mind, something screamed at her not to do it.

But there was nothing else for her to do now.

Nami clutched her staff close, looking out over the stormy sea. The color was strange – there was a darkness surging, almost like something was... bubbling upwards? She took a deep breath, and then inched forward.

A hundred dead fish floated to the surface.

.

.

.

It was so empty.

Caitlyn hadn't expected it to be so empty – the laboratory, that was. That Zaun's streets made it look like a ghost town was no surprise to her. News of the disaster at the Institute probably kept most indoors, planning should it strike there. This was, naturally, good for her since it allowed her entry uncontested. But Viktor's lab should have been different, it should have been positively crawling with acolytes and locked down tighter than a treasury vault. She knew how he was.

Her heels clicked as she walked, echoing throughout the wide, high-ceiling halls. No one was here, and all the electronic locks seemed to have been set on 'access' full time. It was incredibly curious, and it made her feel uneasy. Did something happen to him?

The sheriff came to a large door. No doubt it led to the main complex where Viktor did his actual work. Its lock, too, was set on 'access,' the green light signaling to her its openness. Was she being baited into a trap? Had someone stormed the Machine Herald's laboratory? Had Viktor evacuated?

She opened the door – and saw something terrible.

They were enormous, lined up on either side of the room like half-done museum displays. She could see the sharp edges to their metal teeth, the shine to their steel in red light. They were armed to the teeth with rockets and razors and she didn't know how he had accomplished it, but what had looked before so utterly terrifying now looked completely bone-chilling.

Caitlyn strode past their immense, unmoving forms quickly. Their dead, looming stares seemed to follow her and she had to repress a shudder. There was a large workbench on the other side of the room, with some kind of computer sitting on one end. Papers were strewed all over the top, and they just might have been the clues she needed; if not to what she came here for, then to what these monstrosities were.

They were blueprints. Extremely detailed blueprints.

She dug through them, skimming over the ones that read BATTLECAST at the top, trying to find something – anything – about the system. At the bottom of the pile was an untitled blueprint, a figure sketched on, and she stopped, eyes widening, to read it.

The figure was the Machine Herald of course – and it detailed all of the modifications he had made to himself. Augmented eyes, a few replaced organs, a self-lobotomy that made parts of his brain function as a program instead of the usual, scattered thoughts of the human mind. She had known that he had... altered himself, but to what extent she had had no idea.

How much remained of his original self?

"I thought you'd come."

The sheriff whirled around, hands clamped on top of the papers to keep them from slipping off.

"...Viktor."

The man in question stood before her, but he seemed different. There was something sleeker to his appearance. His mask was gone.

"Sheriff," he greeted stolidly. "Come to rifle through my research?"

It was strange to hear his voice, without the filter the mask applied. Even without the echo, it sounded low, and harsh beneath his heavy accent.

"I had some questions for you," she answered carefully, still braced against the workbench.

This was the first she had seen of his face in a long, long time. It didn't look very different except for the scars. Although, she didn't know if his eyes had been so tired before; dark-lined and sunken in, but still they glowed in the dimness of the room.

His eyes, she realized – they were ringed and swirling like the spiraling shutters of a zoom lens – but most of all, they were green. She had known that before, of course, but it had never struck her quite so prominently. Another might have likened their color and glow to that of the 'access' lights on the electronic locks she had passed before, but the sheriff could only think – how ironic it was that one so obsessed with metal and machines had eyes the color of life.

"I was expecting you," he told her. "My acolytes have been scattered for the time being. I hope you appreciate the trouble I went through to make this convenient for you."

"It was certainly very... easy, to get here," she admitted uneasily, glancing around. "Why?"

He didn't answer, moving past her to reach around and organize his blueprints. His upper arm glinted, and for some reason, something in her stomach turned to lead.

"Your arm," she began, reaching out, almost to touch it, "that part wasn't mechanical before."

"Since the Institute has fallen, I have been making some... improvements," he answered coolly, backing out of her reach. "Your questions, sheriff?"

Caitlyn straightened off the bench, grimacing.

"Firstly, what are those?" she asked, waving an arm in the direction of the monstrosities in the room.

He glanced upwards briefly, almost casually.

"Do you like my creations? The Battlecast line." Viktor walked past her, staring up at the immense contraptions. "Another step towards the beginning of my revolution. They are still in their proto-type forms, unfortunately."

She stifled the distaste rising into her throat - but only just. "Why did you use... _them_ as a model?"

"They are immensely powerful creatures, but they suffer the flaw of flesh." He looked back at her and smiled a strange smile."I took them and I made them metal, I made them eternal – I made them perfect."

There was something chilling about his expression, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other warily.

"Were you going to set these loose on Piltover?"

The Machine Herald shrugged, and she hated how careless it seemed. "Whoever opposed the glorious evolution to come." The smile was gone now, but his gaze remained even as it turned on her. "You would have been one, I expect."

She wasn't sure how to take that.

"They will serve a different purpose now, you'll soon find," he continued, before crossing his arms. "Now sheriff, why don't you ask me about what you really came here for?"

"The system," she muttered, more to herself than to him. Caitlyn glanced up at him curiously. "You're being awfully open today."

"If that is what you choose to believe," he responded cryptically.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, while you're being as open as you are, will you tell me how the system works?"

"Are you interested in all the technical details?" asked Viktor. "Or the gist of it?"

"The gist, if you will."

"Very well." He clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace. "It operates using a very complex interplay of magic and machinery. When a champion dies, their remains are reconstructed in the Respawn Room while magic draws their soul back to their body. The more damage to their corpse, the longer it takes."

"Hence why it takes so long, later in matches," she noted, eyes widening. When they had gotten gold in their purses and items on their belts, all that was left could end up being a fine, red mist.

"Indeed," he affirmed with a nod. "After that, they are summoned back to the fountain, to return to their match."

"And that's it, then? We register for the system, and then we're basically immortal?"

There was a short pause. The Machine Herald stopped in his tracks, head turning slightly as if he wanted to look back at her.

"Essentially," he said after a moment, returning to his pacing.

He had hesitated.

The sheriff raised one brow, hands on her hips. There was something else, something that Viktor wasn't telling her – she knew it. The Voidborn had nothing to gain from sabotaging the system other than a distraction and the ability to kill other champions, but in doing so they too forfeited their own immortality. It made no sense as a catalyst to their cause, there had to be something else that motivated them. Something about the system that no one wanted to tell her.

"Why did Malzahar sabotage your machine, then? What were the Voidborn hoping to gain?" she demanded, taking a step towards him.

He didn't even look, stopping with his back facing her.

"A distraction, wasn't it?" offered the scientist.

"You and I both know that's not true," Caitlyn asserted, voice steely. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing you'll want to hear," he replied calmly.

"I think I can be the judge of that, thank you," she snapped. "What is it about the system that demands so much secrecy?"

"You're treading on thin ice, sheriff," he warned, still not looking at her.

"_You're_ the one on thin ice – do you know I could arrest you for obstruction of justice?" she told him firmly, glaring at him even if he couldn't see.

"On whose authority? You're standing on Zaunite soil."

"The Institute's."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "The Institute has fallen."

"And I need to know why." Caitlyn shoved past him, moving to stand in front of the Machine Herald with a scowl. "Tell me."

He stared at her impassively, exhausted visage immutable. "I can't."

"Yes you can."

"There's nothing to say," he insisted, expression irksomely even in the face of her glare.

"_Yes_ there is!" she snapped. "I know there is, and the only reason why I haven't arrested you on the spot is because I'm giving you the benefit of doubt as an old friend!"

Something in those words shook him. His eyes widened, mouth opening as if to speak, then closing again. She watched him with careful eyes.

For a long moment, there was only silence. His countenance melted back into restraint.

"I wouldn't have thought you would still consider me a friend," he said at last, smiling bitterly. There was a heaviness to his voice, tinged with a strange kind of distance and regret. "Those days were long ago."

She heaved a sigh, angered expression softening. "Viktor. Please."

There was another near-eternal pause. He turned his back on her, and for a moment, she thought that was it.

"When you try to join the League," he began, "what is the one thing they require of you?"

"A judgment," answered the sheriff easily. She glanced up at his form curiously.

The Machine Herald nodded once. "And during that judgment, you..."

"Expose your mind," she finished for him. He nodded again, turning slightly to look at her. His eyes were bright, and piercing.

"And what else do you think is exposed when you do so?" he asked, words slow and deliberate.

Caitlyn faltered, brows furrowing in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Your soul," supplied Viktor, answering his own question. He turned away again. "You expose your soul – and the Institute claims it."

Something cold gripped her. Her breath shook in her lungs, but she pressed on, "I don't follow."

"The magic that allows summoners to peer into your mind also lets them seize your soul," he explained calmly. There was a steely sort of reserve in his tone - a detachment. "Essentially, they reach in and... chain it, so to speak."

"To what?" she asked, shocked.

He glanced back at her again, and she could see clearly the constantly shifting shutters of his augmented eyes.

"To my machine."

The blood had drained from her skull – her vision seemed bleached. Catilyn braced herself heavily against a filing cabinet, taking deep breaths as a wave of nausea washed over her. Their souls were chained to the respawn system? What did that entail? What did that do? What did that mean?

"I don't... How? Why?" she demanded, unclenching her jaw from a finely controlled panic that threatened to burst her heart from her lungs.

"Consider for one moment the nature of League matches," he said, and the level tones of his voice grounded her. The sheriff slowed her breathing. "Have you never wondered why, at the beginning of every match, a purported alien creature of incomprehensible power like the Terror of the Void seemed to stand on even ground with the likes of you, or I?"

"What are you trying to say?" she asked, trying to straighten up now that her balance seemed to return to her.

"Cho'Gath, Fiddlesticks, Nocturne, Shaco." He listed off the names calmly, crossing his arms. "They and several others are creatures of immense power and otherworldly origins. Now tell me, how do you think the Institute managed to control them?"

"Your machine," she whispered. "This – this chain on our soul. What is it capable of, what was it supposed to do?"

"Subdue," answered the Machine Herald shortly. As if it were something that he had said - or been told - over and over again. "It was to deliver unto the Institute of War complete control over the most powerful beings on Runeterra and beyond."

"And so that's why Malzahar sabotaged your system," she concluded shakily. "To destroy the chain."

He tilted his head to show acknowledgment. "They may die, but now they run free."

"Why?" asked the sheriff, utterly and nauseatingly confounded.

Viktor glanced at her, wariness and question in his eyes.

"Why did you do this? What did you stand to gain in developing this system? Was it for your 'glorious evolution,' was the Institute paying you a fortune? What was it all for?" she demanded, voice rising in volume.

"It was an unfortunate byproduct that the Institute wasted no time in exploiting," he replied, grimacing at her. "My original intention was only the respawn aspect of it."

Caitlyn looked at him - his tired visage, dark expression, the way there was an odd, resigned sort of relief lifting his features. Even as her gaze wandered up to the monstrosities looming above them, it could not help but be drawn to the muted earnestness in his face. He might have been a madman, but she knew Viktor. He was telling the truth.

"It's become a mess like this," she murmured to herself, one hand slipping over her eyes. She needed a moment to process this.

Neither of them made a sound for a long while.

The Institute of War had been controlling them this entire time – dancing them on strings like marionettes. To what end, she had no idea, but Caitlyn found herself wondering dangerously whether it was so bad that the Voidborn had destroyed the Institute after all. How many champions had they wanted to gather for the League before making some kind of move? She doubted their desire to control so many powerful beings was born purely of preventative motives.

"There's something you need to see," said the Machine Herald at last, breaking the silence. His voice sounded halting, and grave.

She looked up in surprise – when had he walked over to his workbench?

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer, returning his attention to the computer in front of him. A bit of typing, and a few clicks later, a window had been pulled up on the screen, a video playing on it. She couldn't make out much – smoke and fire, screaming, and explosions. The sheriff felt lightheaded suddenly.

"That's not...?" She almost couldn't bring herself to ask. He caught her gaze with incisive eyes, and nodded.

"Piltover has fallen."

.

.

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* * *

><p><strong>AN: **A big revealing chapter, this one. Next chapter, you'll see the resurgence of familiar POVs.

Until next update, thanks for the usual R&R, F&F!

(Viktor is one of my favorite characters. Is it obvious?)


	12. Encounter

Four days – four days it had taken her to find this abominable site.

And there was nothing here.

Had the officials sent her on a fool's errand?

Trudging beneath a flaming sky, Kayle grimaced. The streets of the ancient city were vast and empty, and though she had expected nothing less, it was still eerie. Beneath her feet she could feel the flow of the strange, dark energy that dwelt here. There was something unnerving about the city's silence – as if its ruin hadn't been brought about by time alone.

The Prophet was nowhere in sight.

It had been obvious from the beginning what his aim was. Since his sabotage had been revealed, she and the officials had had more than an inkling. After all his time spent in the League, all of his conflicts with Kassadin, it would've been folly to assume that Malzahar wanted anything other than to open a rift into the Void.

The Institute of War was aware that there was a tear on Runeterra, somehow, somewhere, that leaked into said abyss. The proof was in the presence of the Voidborn. How it could be any place other than Icathia, however, was beyond her.

The Judicator folded her wings closer about her, stepping lightly over scattered stones that littered what remained of the city's roads. Its cyclopean walls were crumbling, uneven rocks settled in piles where they'd fallen.

Here Malzahar had peered into the Void and gained his otherworldly powers. Here Kassadin had confronted the Void and been nearly consumed by it. Here Kog'maw had arrived from the Void, wretched and infantile under the sun of a vibrant world. If Icathia was not the site of the tear, then it was certainly the site where the barrier between Runeterra and the Void was the weakest.

She arrived at the center of the city now, a sort of town square albeit circular in nature. Somehow the intricate swirling pattern of the complex had remained intact throughout the ages, tiles of faded colors spiraling about a focal point. It was almost hypnotic to look at. To stand atop was a different matter entirely.

Kayle shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Her unease had magnified almost tenfold now that she stood in the midst of Icathia. There was a strange feeling in her gut, as if she were utterly alone and exposed. The sun had almost fully set now, fiery hues giving way to cooler shades. Night would fall soon.

In the distance, a small building collapsed.

Instantly her hands lit up with righteous fury. The Judicator stood tense, looking back and forth for her target.

"Who goes there?" she called out warily. "Show yourself!"

They wouldn't, naturally. But such words tended to make good deterrents, she had found over the ages. Kayle slowly drew her sword. She could hear something shuffling across the ground, now – light steps, as if their feet were thin, or always poised to leap.

Somewhere, there was the sound of low, guttural laughing.

"I sense worthy prey..."

She knew that voice.

"You're the Voidreaver, aren't you?" She spread her wings, stretching them out in anticipation of a hasty flight. "Where is your prophet?"

Silence for the briefest of moments. Another stone fell from atop a nearby building. Kayle took a breath.

There were claws sinking into her back.

She gasped, nearly losing her grip on her sword as she tried to reach around. They were folding into where her wings left her armor – long, jagged claws. The Judicator stifled an agonized cry as around her formed the protective sphere of divine intervention.

The pain ceased for an infinitesimal second of a moment, but there remained a lingering weight on her back, the invasive feeling of something digging into her flesh. Kayle beat her wings on instinct – they fluttered uselessly. She left the ground for but a second before stumbling back to earth. Somehow she was trapped, couldn't move – as if she was bound. She could not maintain her shield.

Through the haze of pain she could hear more of the low, hissing laughter.

"That's enough."

That, too, was a voice she knew.

Neither the pain nor the claws left her. She lay prone on her front, the Voidreaver perched atop her back. In her dimming vision, she could just make out the blood beginning to pool.

"Why stop at the best parrrrrrt?" he asked, voice all but a purr.

"We were only to intercept any that came. Not to kill them."

"He didn't specify." Kayle gasped as Kha'Zix tore a claw out of her roughly. "You have no authority here, Fallen Angel."

There was a pause – a lull in the buzzing of her brain. She struggled to turn her head, to see if Morgana was there. The Voidreaver plunged his claws into the base of her wings, and again, she smothered her cry to a grunt.

"I said, that's enough!"

There was another pause. The Judicator breathed harshly, trying to suppress the pain. There was so much blood – she had no idea she could bleed this much. She felt so cold, suddenly. Was her sister here to kill her?

"Voidreaver..." It was Morgana's voice again, but it was fuzzy to her ears – as if she were underwater.

She could hear nothing of his reply – assumed that he didn't. For a moment, Kayle thought it was over.

Kha'Zix dug his claws in, and pulled.

This time, she could not stifle her scream.

.

.

.

"You okay?"

He only grunted in reply as she led him to sit against a wall. Sivir checked the wrapping, making sure the knot was tight. Burlap didn't make for the best bandages, but for the moment it was the best they had.

"You shouldn't have held back," she sighed, slotting her torch into a rusted holder on the wall. "He really messed you up."

"I was being foolish," Nasus admitted forlornly. He gingerly pressed a hand against his side. "By now I know how my brother is, but when I saw him appear so calm with the Serpent's Embrace..."

"I know," she assured him, patting him on the arm. "No helping that now."

"We should keep moving," he said, through a somewhat labored breath.

"As if we could keep going with your guts almost sliced open," the Battle Mistress snorted. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this tomb is? There are still a lot of traps that weren't set off last time I was here."

"Better than to meet with my brother," the librarian returned. "His destructive nature would certainly set them off."

"Katarina stayed behind to keep him under wraps. As long as you don't get into reaching distance, it should be fine, right?"

"I assure you, Renekton can close distances quite easily," he informed her wryly, face twisting up just slightly in pain as he removed his hand from his side. "We should seek out our answers now, before it becomes too troublesome."

Sivir frowned, reluctantly helping him stand. This was a foolhardy idea – to her, at least – but she knew Nasus could be surprisingly stubborn when it came down to it. They _had_ come here to find answers for Cassopeia, but that didn't mean he was obligated to risk his life for them. He didn't owe the Du Couteau's anything.

"The chamber where it happened is a pretty substantial walk down," she informed him, retrieving the torch from the wall. "Can you make it that long?"

"I am not immortal in name only," he reminded her gently, leaning against his halberd for support. "This is just a flesh wound."

She almost rolled her eyes. "If you say so. Follow me."

Together they trudged through the narrow corridor that served as the entryway to the tomb's subterranean bowels. Some of it had caved in on the sides, but there was still a relatively clear path. If her memory was right, they would come upon a stairwell down pretty soon. There was a tripwire at the top of it, but she'd cut it the last time she was here. It had been rigged with a blade that'd almost taken off Cassiopeia's head. In hindsight, she kind of regretted disabling it.

"So what do you actually know about Shurima?" she asked, keeping her voice low. It was so damn empty, the slightest noises echoed immensely. "You spend a lot of time here, from what I hear."

"I have perused what limited records the Institute had of its history," answered Nasus, taking the first few steps down the stairs. She quickened her pace a little bit so that she could walk ahead of him – it would be stupid to let the wounded one lead. "It reminds me greatly of my home."

"Old and in shambles?"

"A pinnacle of once-greatness, rather," he replied dryly

"So I take it you know about as much about ancient curses as the rest of us, then," she said, gesturing for him to carefully sidestep a suspiciously clean looking tile. If the little holes on the walls said anything, it was a classic arrow trap. How the things stayed running for so long – or if there were even any arrows left to fire – was beyond her.

"Unfortunately so. I am skeptical of our chances of curing Miss Du Couteau."

"It won't be on you either way it falls," the mercenary told him with a shrug. "If she listened to me in the first place, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"What exactly happened here that made her so?" He cast a curious glance about them, the narrow corridor widening into a network of vaster chambers. "What was buried within this tomb?"

"Can't tell you that," she responded shortly. As much as she hated it, she was technically under oath. It didn't mean much, but while they were still on this little camping trip, she had no intentions of pissing off Katarina. It wasn't like he wouldn't find out on his own, at any rate. They were already in the thick of the matter.

Nasus didn't reply, and from the corner of her eye she could see him wince and slide a hand over to his side. The idiot really was pushing himself too hard. Too bad there was nothing living in this tomb, otherwise he could've siphoned a little to keep himself going.

They spilled out into a considerably large chamber now, although a lot of it had caved in. The Battle Mistress could just recall it. It had been the room they entered right before delving into the heart of the tomb.

"Ah. Here's the interesting stuff," she said, gesturing towards a wall ahead of them. What was left was covered in pictures, some kind of glyphs that she had never been able to nor ever cared to read. "You wouldn't happen to be fluent in Shuriman text...?"

"I am not," he said, shaking his head. The librarian reached out, brushing his fingers across the dusty pictures. "Or I did not believe I was - but these glyphs..."

Sivir shot him a glance. "Can you read it?"

"I've seen this before – when I oversaw the Great Library." Well that was awfully convenient. His eyes narrowed, and she held the torch closer for him. "I believe it's... a warning."

"A warning for what?"

"It says... that the unwary trespasser may soon find their heart will mirror their soul."

"That's wonderfully cryptic," she muttered sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "But I bet this has to do with the curse on Cassiopeia. She always had the heart of a snake."

"Strange that they mention soul specifically, however," noted Nasus, "and not simply outward appearance."

"You think it's significant?" she asked skeptically, giving him a sideways glance.

"We cannot discount any details," he answered with a slight shrug, before turning and looking over the rest of the ruined wall. "It is a shame that so much of this passage was destroyed. The answer could have lied here."

"Things generally don't come that easy." Sivir picked at a loose stone with her free hand. "You're welcome to poke around if you think we can salvage something."

"Did anything else of significance occur beyond this point?" The librarian turned towards the partially collapsed doorway to the next chamber.

"Well, where you're looking is the room leading to where she got cursed," said the mercenary. "Anywhere after that, I'm not really supposed to say."

He shot her an unamused glance. "Your confidentiality policy is making this quite difficult, it would seem."

"It's not mine," she replied easily. "You can take it up with Katarina if it's bugging you so much."

Nasus made a noise suspiciously similar to a snort. "I doubt that would pan out well."

The librarian moved around her and hobbled towards the entryway to the next room. Cautiously, the Battle Mistress followed after.

"This room is empty?" he asked curiously, surveying their dilapidated surroundings. A corner of the room was caved in completely, an open archway into a narrow hallway trailing off into darkness.

"Empty as the day we found it," came her easy answer. Sivir crossed her arms. "There's a little bit of writing on the wall if you want to take another shot, but it's pretty faded."

Nasus drew close to the dusty stone, tilting his head. "It says... 'Turn back,' I believe."

"A final warning?" she wondered casually. "Seen plenty of those before."

"Most likely." The librarian glanced around once again - searching for what, she didn't know - but his gaze shifted back towards the open archway. "It is strange. Whoever built this tomb took great pains to equip it against raiders, and yet... the way is open, nonetheless."

"Maybe it's bait for fools," she offered, corner of her lips turning up into a sharp smile as she thought of Cassiopeia, and her obstinacy. "Dead men can't try twice."

The Curator inclined his head towards her. "Perhaps it is so."

A yell echoed throughout distant, empty chambers. The Battle Mistress tensed, whirling around to face the entryway. Footsteps. Running. Someone was yelling.

"Stop! Dammit, stop right there!" It was Katarina.

She could see Nasus rising from her periphery, a hand going to his side again. She reached for her crossblade.

Renekton burst into the room.

.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: More of a transitional chapter - but good to hear from some people we haven't seen in a while, right? And there's more of that to come next chapter.

As always, thanks for the R&R, F&F! See you next update.


	13. Kairos

This was the end.

He never knew Piltover could get so dark. It was a city of thousands of lights. It never flickered, never stuttered, never slept, ever. It was a hive of technology and progress, and he'd left it for a couple months to do work and now –

Cho'Gath had destroyed most of the power lines.

The Defender of Tomorrow cradled his Mercury Hammer close, leaned his head back against the wall, and breathed. He could feel the rumbling underneath his feet, further evidence of the Voidborns' presence in the city. In the chaos of Cho'Gath's rampage, another tear had opened somehow – more cultists? - and more voidlings started to pour into the streets. The police department was doing what it could, but...

Next to him, Vi shifted slightly. The Enforcer was crouched low and completely banged up. Whatever she'd been doing before the situation had blown up on them hadn't done much for her health. They hadn't had time to take her to a reputable doctor, but she refused to evacuate with the citizens. Typical Vi.

Jayce closed his eyes, and listened to the sound of Heimerdinger's turrets in the distance.

Someone was screaming.

"I thought the civilians were out," she muttered, and he opened his eyes to see her struggling to her feet.

"Whoa, you're not going out there, are you?" he asked, rushing to stand. She wobbled, and he reached out a hand to steady her. "You can hardly walk straight."

"Lantern-jaw," she forced out through gritted teeth, "you've known me long enough to know how many shits I don't give."

"I can check it out by myself. You need to stay here and rest a little," he insisted, pushing her back firmly.

She shrugged him off. "Like hell I'm just going to sit here and do nothing."

"Well you're sure as hell not going to walk out there and get killed," snapped Jayce, eyes narrowing. "You're gonna be more useful in the long run if you sit down. Let me handle it."

"Since when has this shit ever worked?" she growled, pushing past him.

"Vi!"

Sometimes, there really was no stopping her.

The Enforcer trudged out into the open street and he followed after, hammer held ready. It was a moonless sky; there was only light cast by fire, and magic, and blood. He ground a voidling under foot.

"Damn," she whispered underneath her breath, and when he looked around, Jayce could see the bodies that had piled up.

The screaming hadn't stopped.

"One of the residential sectors," he said, pointing down the street. They could see the huge silhouette of the Terror of the Void.

"Why haven't those idiots evacuated?" She started to run.

"It's a slum." Taking off after her, he tossed out an acceleration gate ahead. "Where are all our officers?"

"Better not be fucking dead!"

In the distance, they could see figures running towards them. Civilians, still here. Three days after the first attacks. Air traffic must have backed up so much that they couldn't make it out in time.

"This way!" he called to them, lighting up his Mercury Hammer so they could see. "Get to the academy!"

It was too tiny to house everyone, but the professor and Ziggs and Corki had turned it into a veritable fortress in no time at all. At the very least, they would be safe until extraction.

The ground shook and he stumbled, trying to keep his footing. There was still a scattered crowd of citizens running towards them – how many had been crammed into that slum?

"Please, help!" cried a woman, falling to her knees. He rushed to her, dragging his hammer along in one hand as he tried to haul her upwards with his other. The ground trembled again.

Jayce looked up.

"Fuck!" Vi staggered towards him, gauntlets charging. "How in the hell did he get so huge?"

"There's no way we can take him on," he breathed out, dragging the woman with him back the way they came. "Not just you and me."

His size rivaled a building's.

Cho'Gath leaned down close to peer at them, and by the light of his glowing eyes they could see the gleam of his teeth. The Defender of Tomorrow shoved the woman away.

"Go!" he whispered to her urgently, and she hobbled off, crying.

Standing in a deserted, dilapidated street, he lit up his lightning field. The yellow light flickered off the remains of steel and stone. Vi stood next to him, tensed.

There was a roaring in his ears. A kind of non-sound, a deafening silence. Blood rushing through his skull, adrenaline through his veins. He could feel his heart pumping, and he knew, for now, he was alive.

The Terror of the Void laughed – an almost shrieking, his voice pitching high.

"Who will be eaten first?" he rumbled, lips pulled back in a wide sneer. He lunged

Jayce breathed.

There was a great light.

Blinding, burning, piercing light – day by night, the sun rising in the midnight sky.

Instinctively a hand flew to his face, covering his eyes. Jayce stumbled backwards a few steps as the ground rocked beneath them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear Cho'Gath screeching. He blinked once, twice, trying to clear the spots from his vision. Someone pulled him backwards.

"Are you two all right?"

He knew that voice – imperious and strong and kind all at once.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the sun.

"Leona...!" coughed Vi, next to him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I will explain later. Retreat at once!" She lowered her shield, pulling out in front of them. "I will protect you."

"We can still fight!" he protested, lifting his hammer. "You can't take Cho'Gath on alone."

"I'm not alone," she replied calmly. The Terror of the Void roared. He whirled around to see the Artisan of War driving his spear into the Voidborn's gut.

"Pantheon!" he exclaimed, eyes widening.

"Sorry we came so late!" someone called from above. "Air traffic was really bad!"

He sucked in a sharp breath. Lux, and her brother Garen – the Crowngaurd siblings roping down into their city. How had they not heard the airship pulling in?

"Now is not the time for chatter!" warned Leona, flashing her zenith blade and blinking in towards Cho'Gath.

"Right!" cried Lux, staff charging with light as she grounded.

He was almost dizzy with relief, it was difficult to stand. It wasn't the end. It wasn't. They stood a chance. There were other champions here. He was so dazed, he barely noticed Garen leaping to the ground, dragging the rope with him. The Might of Demacia started to fasten it around his waist.

"W-wait, what are you...?"

He had already moved onto Vi – who was resisting, naturally.

"We are evacuating you two. You're both wounded, and in no condition to fight."

"I'm in total condition to fight!" he protested, hands flying to the makeshift harness.

Too late. The world tilted, and suddenly he was jerked into the air, Mercury Hammer slipping from his grasp.

"Bastard, let me - !" He could hear her struggling, and the Defender of Tomorrow clung tight to his line.

Piltover looked so strange from the sky – how come he had never noticed? Rings and rings of black, smoking sectors. Delineated walls broken and wrecked, debris spilling into one section from the next.

Maybe it was the air thinning; he didn't quite feel like himself anymore.

"What's happening...?" he mumbled, just barely noticing his hammer being drawn up above him.

He could see them fighting from where he was. They were little specks compared to Cho'Gath's murky form. Were they really going to be okay?

Jayce coughed, covering his face with a dirty sleeve. That was right. All the smoke in the air. It was so hard to breathe. Or maybe he was just tired? He didn't – he didn't know...?

By the time they hauled him onto the deck, Jayce had passed out.

.

.

.

Malzahar was not in Piltover.

This was what Kassadin had realized the moment Cho'Gath had been sighted. Someone as cunning as he would not have revealed his hand in one fell swoop by sending the most visible of his forces to take his objective. No, Piltover was, at best, a stepping stone – at worst, it was a distraction.

Three days ago, the Kinkou Order had received him by airship, when he was returning from Shurima through Mogron Pass. He had not found the Prophet of the Void in Icathia, long as it took him to reach the damnable place. Malzahar had not been there and that was terrifying.

The weakest barrier between Runeterra and the Void had to have been at Icathia; anywhere else was unthinkable. Yet, the Prophet was not there. In his brief search, he had found nothing. Malzahar sought to open the Void, that was not in question, but if not in Icathia, then where?

The Void Walker crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and listened.

The Prophet had been sighted by the sea.

His subordinates had relayed the information to him via messenger pigeon, scattered as they were across Valoran. He had been spotted traveling along the coast, in the direction of Piltover, or perhaps Zaun. There was no concrete data as yet.

Somehow, though, Kassadin knew.

The sounds of the ocean were dissonantly calming against the gleam of red tides in the rising sun. Their color was not of sun-rays, but blood. The rotting carcasses of fish littered the sand.

"What's happening?"

Behind him stood the Tidecaller. Her voice was shaky, fearful. It shouldn't have surprised him – she was still so young. The girl had been peering over the sea when he had arrived. Maybe she had been returning to her people – he didn't know. It was too late now.

He took a deep breath and turned around.

There stood the Prophet, instead.

"What you are witnessing," he rasped, "is the day of reckoning."

"Malzahar," he greeted impassively. After so long, he could no longer summon surprise.

"I'm impressed, Void Walker," the Prophet said, drifting around him. The tips of his shoes only just grazed the surface of the sand. "That you would anticipate my coming here is of seer-worthy foresight."

Kassadin open and closed his hand slowly, averting his gaze from Malzahar's bright eyes. He could feel the dark energy pulsating in his palm. "A lucky guess, as it were."

"Why are you here?" asked the Tidecaller, and he could see her over Malzahar's shoulder, hands wringing about her staff nervously.

The Prophet turned, very slightly, to glance at her.

"The day of reckoning," he repeated, and he returned his gaze to the sea. The waters were bubbling.

Kassadin wasted no time.

He lunged, nether blade in hand. One clean slash to the throat. Just one slash, and it would be done. Malzahar whirled around, smoothly sidestepping him.

"This is the true tear to the Void, isn't it?" demanded the Void Walker. He reared back, tensed for another attack. "Not Icathia."

"Never Icathia," laughed the Prophet, alighting on the sand. He stood with his arms open - beckoning Kassadin to try again.

The Void Walker took a deep breath - and lunged a second time.

Malzahar twisted around the blade, weaving past his every strike until he took to the air again and floated backwards.

It was damnable. The area was deficit of energy; there was nothing he could draw from to focus into a pulse that might slow him, and the Prophet knew this - had likely predicted it - and that realization was a slow-burning frustration that was turning rapidly into a roaring fire. Beneath his helmet, he gritted his teeth.

Just one slash, and it would be done.

There was a shift in self, sense, and time. They were nose to nose, shoulder to shoulder - he drew up his hand, a nether blade forming in his palm.

His throat was so exposed.

Malzahar leaned forward, eyes aflame.

Below him, Kassadin thought he could see the Void. Then, there was darkness.

In his mind's eye, he saw everything that he ever was, and would ever be.

A man before the Void Walker, a husband before a mage, a father, above all else. Death and decay and destruction. Obsession, all-consuming. The search. The hunt. Sleepless nights and soulless days. A fated encounter in an abandoned city – and so it was that he died. Dark energy, swirling, amassing. Screeching, roaring, deafening silence. The emptiness of an utter abyss. Someone dear, torn away. A scream.

"Papa!"

Did he want to die, or was he already dead?

Kassadin could feel his breath growing thick and heavy in his lungs – the air going cold and settling at the bottom of his chest. His life - draining away. His soul - fading.

The ocean roared. There was a sound like thunder. He was bowled over suddenly, drenched.

"Are you okay?" someone cried.

Once more, there was light.

.

.

.


	14. Remission

The air smelled of smoke and blood and dust – destruction, at its finest.

Sitting on the ground, back to the remains of a brick wall, Lux leaned on her staff and took slow breaths. Blood trickled down her neck. Her left ear ached terribly, but she could still hear the whirring of the airship in the distance. From where they were, tucked into the shell of what was once a bookstore, it sounded far, far away.

"Here."

She glanced up to see an extended hand, golden gauntlet battered and dirty.

"Thanks," murmured the mage. The Radiant Dawn pulled her to her feet, giving her a light pat on the shoulder in response. "He left?"

"Retreated, as far as we know," answered the woman with a single nod. She turned hard eyes to the horizon, grimacing. "Were there not more pressing matters, we would give chase."

"The destruction he caused..." Lux shook her head, glancing around. "This isn't something I want to see anywhere else."

"The civilians have, for the most part, been evacuated, or are sheltered in the Yordle Academy," said Pantheon, as he converged upon them with her brother in tow. "Though we did not slay the beast, it seems our engagement was yet a success."

"I've received word from the Eye of Twilight," returned Leona, greeting her friend with a slight bow of her head. She gestured to the radio on her strapped to her belt – it looked strange against her armor, a contraption of modern innovation set against a sacred raiment of ancient rites. "We will be extracted shortly."

"What about Piltover?" asked Lux, surprised. "Aren't we going to do something about the voidlings, or the cultists?"

"More pressing matters have arisen," Garen answered, shaking his head. "The situation here has been contained."

"I wouldn't call _this_ contained," she replied, irked, gesturing at the havoc around her.

Even though they were sheltered in the bookstore's remains, they could still hear the skittering of voidlings about – the crumbling of stones as more buildings collapsed. The very idea that they could leave Piltover in this condition...

"Duty calls elsewhere," her brother maintained tersely. He glanced at her, frowning. "And at any rate, you require medical attention."

She brushed aside the hand the had reached for her ear, shooting him a warning glance. Garen raised his hands in easy surrender, a faint, sheepish look washing over him despite the exhaustion evident on his face.

"I'm fine," she said, apologetically. He was just worried, after all. "I didn't expect for his screech to be so loud... but I can still hear."

"Miss Buvelle is part of the medical team on board," remarked Leona, turning assuring eyes on her brother. "She will be properly looked after. We all will."

Cho'Gath had definitely roughed them up – that would be quickly apparent should anyone give them a once-over. The bruises and batters from his ruptures, the cuts from his spikes, were a small price to pay compared with their lives, however. Glancing around at the half-eaten cadavers that littered the streets, Lux knew to be grateful for this, at least.

A low whirring – suddenly very deafening. The wind picked up.

"They're here," said Pantheon, over the roar.

Over his shoulder, she could see the rope ladder tumbling down, and the four of them trudged to where it had touched the ground. The shadow cast by the airship was huge, and smothering. It made her feel very small, and very tired. Lux followed after Leona as they made the long ascent to the ship.

When they finally boarded, her brother wiped the blood off of her with the end of his scarf, and then sent her to the medical bay.

.

.

.

"Very well. We'll pick you up at the Howling Marsh. All right. Good luck."

He looked up from his place in the doorway, shooting her an inquisitive glance.

"The sheriff reports something strange occurring in the bay between Piltover and Zaun," sighed Akali, replacing the phone on its hook. The humming of the airship and its steel walls gave a metallic edge to her words, as if they were cradled by the room. "The Machine Herald has dispatched a group of his acolytes to investigate, while they travel to the marshes to regroup with us. He is insistent that they reach the Institute."

"To what end?" he asked. There was nothing left at the Institute but wreckage – the Voidborn had left little behind.

"I suspect it has something to do with the fact that he received word of a replacement crystal being secured," she replied easily, crossing her arms. "Though why it is so significant at this point, I cannot fathom."

"It is in our possession currently, is it not?"

"It is." Akali shifted back onto one foot. "The young explorer trusted it to our keeping – he said he had business in Demacia."

"I see." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Any word on the Judicator? Or the Starchild?"

It had been several days since they heard from Kayle – something which was mildly concerning, considering her very meticulous adherence to their previously agreed communication schedule. He had been against her decision to travel alone, but the woman had been unmoving. The Eye of Twilight only hoped that letting her go had been wise.

"The Judicator has not sent word regarding her hunt for Icathia," she answered. He felt something ill settle in his stomach. "As for the Starchild, she and the Nine-Tailed Fox have reached Ionia safely. Last news we received, they were traveling to the Shojin Monastery to seek sanctuary."

"That is good," said Shen, nodding. If Ahri had recovered, all the better. They would be safe with the likes of the Blind Monk. "Ionia will, for the most part, be spared of this bloodshed."

"The same cannot be said for Valoran," she muttered under her breath. "Would it not be wiser to bring the Starchild here? To treat the plethora of wounded?"

He shook his head. "Soraka is no longer divine - her powers are not endless. We should not foster dependence on her abilities."

Akali shot him a sideways glance, telling in its skepticism. "You know what is best."

A familiar phrase to him. He wanted to sigh.

Maintaining the illusion of apathy and non-emotion only made him out as level-headed, at best. Whether or not he bore the wisdom the Kinkou so needed to guide them was a different matter entirely. He knew why they had such faith in him - it was his duty, after all - but Shen loathed to imagine what would ensue when he inevitably made the wrong call.

It would happen someday – he had enough foresight at least to know this.

Tempting as it was to shrug – such a careless, non-communicative gesture, yet so easy an answer – he remarked instead, "Your deference is appreciated. Ideally, it is not ill-placed."

"You are the Eye of Twilight for a reason," was her matter-of-fact reply, and she could not have seen the slight, self-deprecating smile that formed beneath his mask. "Kennen and I have full confidence in your judgment."

Shen averted his gaze from hers, watching the passing clouds out the window beyond. A brief moment of silence. He closed his eyes.

"For better or worse."

.

.

.

Everything hurt.

He felt like he was made of lead – his limbs were so heavy. His skin had a strange, dull kind of burning feeling. And it itched.

What happened?

Graves smacked his lips, face screwing up in displeasure as he tasted the dryness of his own mouth. His tongue was like sandpaper. The Outlaw tried to turn his head. He could hear the creaking of his neck.

"Finally awake, hm?"

He blinked several times to try and clear the blurriness from his vision, but the light was still too bright for him to stop squinting. He could make out red.

"F-Fortune?" he groaned, and his voice crawled out of his parched throat. "What...?"

"Afternoon, old timer," she greeted him, and he didn't have to see her face to see her smirk. "If you can sit up, there's water on the night stand."

Graves coughed, closing his eyes again for a little bit. It was actually pretty tempting to go back to sleep.

"Well don't go under now," he heard her say. "You've been napping almost four days already."

For some reason beyond him, he laughed a little at that – a short, dry one that hurt the deepest part of his throat. Four days. Damn. His head hurt like hell. He couldn't remember if he'd been drinking last he was awake.

"They say that... dyin' of thirst feels like... a godawful hangover," murmured Graves. He shot her foggy visage a look, stopping to cough. "So tell me... which is it?"

"Maybe both," answered the Bounty Hunter with a light laugh, and he felt her hand on his shoulder. "Now come on. Up you go."

He grunted, opening his eyes as she pulled him into a sitting position. Every bone in his back creaked in protest, but he did it anyway and almost fell right back over as all the blood rushed from his head. Cold glass was pressed to his lips, and dizzily the Outlaw grasped at it, tilting the cup back to take a drink.

"I forgot what cold water tasted like," he sighed, wiping away the excess with the back of his hand. His beard felt coarse, unkempt, and most of all too long. He made a mental note to trim it when he got the chance.

"Too much booze will do that," she teased, taking the glass back. "Feel any better, old man?"

"Not if you keep makin' fun of my age," he grumbled, glancing at her. "I ain't _that_ old."

He could see her clearly now. She looked much cleaner, and her clothes were patched up – maybe she'd gotten them laundered. Graves reached for the glass and took another sip.

"Where in tarnation are we?"

"A Demacian hospital," Fortune replied easily. "In case all the medical bits didn't tip you off."

"S'not like I was particularly lookin'," he snorted, looking around.

When he did take the time to survey the room, he could see the general makings of a hospital. Blindingly sterilized décor and all. He had to double-take when he noticed the IV in his arm, though – how in the hell he missed that, he had no idea. Maybe it was all the bandages.

"You were real banged up," she said. She must've noticed him glancing at the IV. "We were worried you wouldn't make it, for a good long while."

"Got the soreness to show for it," he sighed, carefully rotating his shoulder in the socket to test. Damn, that hurt. "Gotten spoiled off that fancy magic they got in the League. Now I'm all namby-pamby with pain."

"Well, be thankful you're alive. The doctors said you lost a lot of blood. You and him both."

He shot her a look. "That no-good card shark's still kicking?"

"The scum of the earth don't scrub off that easily," Fortune told him with a knowing smile. He had to give her that one. "You should know that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Graves shot back, one eyebrow raised.

"Takes one to know one is all I'm saying," was her breezy reply. He decided he'd ignore that one – for now.

"So what happened?" He rubbed the back of his neck with a stiff hand, trying to work out the knots. "Did we get the sonova bitch?"

"Just about," she said with a shrug. "When I brought some guards back, all we found were you two fools passed out and a torn up bag of hay and sticks."

"I wouldn't be sure of nothin' like that," he warned her, shaking his head. "That scarecrow wasn't made of this world."

"Must've been why he was in league with the Prophet," Fortune mused, tilting her head. "Or I bet he was. There were a lot of people out and about that shouldn't have been..."

"Wouldn't be surprised if he set them loose," he agreed. The Outlaw looked around the hospital room again – nobody other than him, despite the other cots. "What happened to Miss Karma? And the ghoul?"

"Oh, well." The Bounty Hunter shrugged one shoulder. "She got an audience with Prince Jarvan and got an airship back to Ionia, free of charge – after they locked down the ghost, of course."

"You didn't get one back to Bilgewater?" he asked, surprised. He reached for that glass of water again.

She fixed him with a pointed look. "Someone had to look after your sorry ass."

That gave him a little bit of a start, and he had to stop with the glass halfway to his lips, eyes widening. After a moment, the Outlaw took a sip, and collected himself.

" 'Preciate it," Graves muttered, but seeing her satisfied smile, added, "but don't be holdin' this over my head or nothin'. I didn't ask you to stick around."

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say, old man," she said, waving him off. Fortune grinned slyly at him. "Bet you would've been lonely without me."

He snorted. "Yeah. That'll be the day."

.

.

.


	15. Judgment

"Renekton!" he grunted, bearing the full weight of the blow under the shaft of his halberd. "Stop this foolishness at once!"

His brother did not answer him – could not, for he had reverted to his crazed roars, spit dribbling from bared teeth as he snarled and lunged at him. Renekton seemed to lean into their locked weapons, gradually applying more pressure, and Nasus could feel a strange trickling – a slow tearing of something in his side. He grit his teeth, struggling to push back.

"Get off him!"

Under normal circumstances, the Battle Mistress would not have been able to haul him off the way she did, but his brother had been leaning so far in that he was naturally off balance when she tackled. This quick analysis was what flitted through the librarian's mind as he staggered backwards, catching his breath. He should have been able to withstand this assault – should have been able to push his brother off.

"Nasus!" he snarled, shaking the mercenary off. He scrabbled wildly at the ground with his claws as he tried to stand. The Curator of the Sands took a shaky breath, and steadied himself.

"Ugh." Sivir kicked him in the side of his head. "Settle down!"

His brother only swatted her aside, scrambling to his feet as his hands found his weapon once more. Nasus tightened his grip on his halberd. Renekton lunged. He went for the throat this time – slicing his blade laterally in an attempt to decapitate him. The blow glanced off the handle and the librarian swung it around to try and knock his brother off his feet.

He couldn't kill him – not now.

Renekton twisted around it. It was that strange, rolling dive. He seemed to go straight for his stomach. The Curator stumbled to the side, just barely dodging the hit as his brother met with the wall behind. Nasus had barely time to whirl around as he kicked off of it for another pitch.

Something flitted by and his brother made a sudden slash at the air, knocking the boomerang blade from its course. Behind him, he could hear the Battle Mistress click her tongue. Something dripped.

When Nasus looked down, he saw blood – when he looked up, he saw Renekton.

He was going to cut him open in one lunge. All he saw in that precise second was the wicked gleam of his brother's eye, the orange glow about the frenzied, slitted pupil that told him, no – right now, this was not his brother, and he would be a fool to hope it was.

Nasus shut his eyes tight.

Someone let out a strangled growl.

"My... What is it we have here?" There came a soft, wispy voice. "The Butcher of the Sands... and his brother, in mortal combat."

It was a low, whispered tone – husky by the sounds of other voices echoing atop it like smoke shrouding the sky. Chillingly familiar.

He opened his eyes.

There was a hook in Renekton's shoulder – embedded deeply by his neck such that the blood flowed in a red river. It was holding him, jerking him backwards as he struggled against it, and the librarian could see the flesh peeling back around it as the thrashing only deepened its hold. Nasus followed the chain.

"Thresh!" It was Katarina, standing on the other side of the room, in the doorway. Her eyes were wide, and though he could tell she had been running, her face was pale.

He stood in the darkness of the next chamber, cloaked in shadow. At his feet was a dim, green glow – no doubt from his lantern – but it was the fiery light of his eyes that peered coolly into the room.

Why was the Chain Warden in Shurima?

"The Sinister Blade," he greeted, voice but a murmur. "A pleasure. We were not expecting you."

"We?" she asked warily, eyes darting about for his cohort.

"We," he assured her, tone light and gently menacing in its legionnaire whispers.

"Why are you here?"

It was Sivir, coming to stand beside him. Nasus winced as she pressed a firm hand to his reopened wound, a scolding glance shot his way as he pulled her hand away and replaced it with his own.

The shock of their new arrival had warded away the pain. Her wordless disapproval was not lost on him.

"Perhaps you'll find out," Thresh replied easily, and if his face had not been set in a ghastly, eternal leer, he certainly would have done so then. His brother groaned and struggled against the chain again, but the Chain Warden only jerked it back. "I myself am curious as to the presence of the illustrious Du Couteau... sisters?"

Cassiopeia had slithered in.

His grip on the chain seemed to slacken, and something in Nasus's stomach churned at the sight of the specter's widening sneer. Something was amiss. He turned, ever so slightly to look at her, head cocking sideways.

"Well, well... This is very interesting," he murmured.

"What?" Katarina took a step forward, obvious concern for her sister in her voice. "What is it?"

Thresh chuckled a low, cruel chuckle, winding the chain around his hand as he reeled Renekton in closer, eliciting another groan. Something about that chain, or that hook, seemed to drain him. The Curator of the Sands set his jaw firmly, hand tightening to a fist.

"That's right..." he whispered, leaning forward. "You can't see it."

"See what?" demanded the elder Du Couteau anxiously.

The Chain Warden took a single step forward, blazing gaze boring into the Sepent's Embrace as she slithered towards Renekton. Somehow, he seemed to smile – and it was dark, and thoughtful, and foreboding.

"Her soul... is becoming inhuman."

.

.

.

The world was ending – the world as they knew it was ending.

But something about it seemed terribly familiar.

"Retreat, Tidecaller," Kassadin gasped, water leaking from the cracks in his mask. He coughed, pushing her backwards with one hand on her shoulder. "They have arrived."

There were so many of them. Huge, bulking, grotesque – almost as gigantic as the Terror of the Void had been, after his feeding – and they rose from the sea like the surfacing of newly-untethered buoys. Somehow, some way, Nami felt as if she was watching the advent of a childhood nightmare; horrors she had never known, as if she had dreaded them all her life.

Malzahar had turned his back on them to watch their ascent. Something cold trickled down her scales. They were so close to the shore. Kassadin dragged her backwards, urgently pulling her away.

"You must go, now!"

"But what will you do?" she protested, struggling against his iron grip.

"The Prophet is my responsibility," he rasped, the breathy filter returning to his voice now that the seawater had cleared. "These consequences are mine to face."

"You can't! That – that would be suicide." The Marai managed to yank her arm from his hand. "Just look at them! How could you deal with them yourself?"

"That is not the issue," said the Voidwalker, voice low. "It is imperative that you contact the Kinkou Order. Immediately."

"Going somewhere?"

She whirled around – Malzahar had turned to look at them. The glow to his eyes was menacing beneath the shadow of his hood. The Tidecaller, despite herself, trembled.

"Go!" ordered Kassadin, giving her a shove.

Nami swam as fast as her fins would take her, surging tides beneath her tail pushing her forward. She could hear behind her the gasping exhale of the Voidwalker's force pulse – why hadn't he used it earlier? – the sound of shifting sands Malzahar's null zone made. Before her stretched the Ironspike Mountains.

"Reach the mountain range!" she could hear him yell, voice rapidly fading as she willed the tides to carry her faster, further. "Contact the Kinkou!"

Nami could not answer him – could only gulp down shuddering breaths as she strained to keep vision on her goal. The light of the morning sun was harsh to her eyes. She could barely see.

Then there was shadow.

Her heart plummeted to her stomach and she whirled around so quickly she nearly lost her balance. The silhouette was huge and looming over her – she could make out four arms, and the figure was so familiar, she was sure she was dead.

"Analysis underway. Stand by," it rattled out. The Marai was all but frozen beneath its red gaze. "Orders received: escort."

That mechanical voice... This could not have been Cho'Gath, could it?

"Tidecaller," said a different voice. It was muffled by static, but the robotic slant only familiarized the accent to her.

"Viktor...?" she asked, warily. "Is that you?"

"Keep moving," he told her – the voice seemed to project from the monstrosity's shoulders, above."I will explain on the way. Only know that this is my creation, and it will not harm you."

Even if he was lying to her, it wasn't as if she had much choice but to oblige him, and the Marai took up a quick stride. "What is that thing? Why are you helping me? What's going on?"

"It is merely a techmaturgical adaptation – improvement, if you will – of something very familiar to you. As for why I am aiding you, well..."

"The elders wouldn't give me leave to give Diana a proper burial," broke in another voice. Female. One she knew for sure. "But they let me take care of her body otherwise. I found several notes among her belongings. What do the words 'abyssal pearl' and 'moonstone' mean to you?"

"The moonstone?" she gasped, head snapping upwards to look at the mechanical Cho'Gath. "It's –it's what I came to the surface for. Every one hundred years, my people need it to ward off the terrors of the depths."

She thanked the oceans that she did not traverse land conventionally, or else scaling the mountainside would have been incredibly difficult. Watching her robotic escort use his knife-like appendages to climb was evidence enough of that. The whole mountain practically shook with every stab.

"Will this be the hundredth year since your people last acquired the moonstone?" Leona asked her.

They reached a small plateau, and Nami stopped to think for a second – of the time she had spent in the depths, hunting for the pearl, of the time she had spent waiting in the mystic cove, and then the time she had spent in the League.

"...Yes."

The surfacing monstrosities. The fish. The sea.

Her people.

"No." She dropped her staff, hands flying to her head. The realization was only just beginning to sink in. "No no no no no!"

"What happened?"

"The moonstone!" she cried. "I needed the moonstone to ward off the monsters of the deep! My people were depending on it, and now..."

"Could it be," began the Radiant Dawn, "that the monsters of the deep were in fact –"

"Creatures of the Void," finished Viktor. He continued with, "Wherever your people are settled must be near a tear."

"If the moonstone is necessary to warding them away, then it might be key to stopping the Prophet," said Leona gravely.

"But that was all just preventative!" she yelled, hands balling into fists. Her voice pitched high in desperation, and Nami swallowed a sob. "It's too late!"

"Think rationally, Tidecaller," the Machine Herald told her. "We have no concrete evidence, and few other leads. It may not be too late."

She inhaled shakily, eyes shut tight. "It's too late for my people."

The hundreds of fish that floated to the surface were only a sampling of what had occurred deep in her heart, she knew this.

Leona's voice, though shrouded by static, was soothing. "You will never know until you try."

Slowly, she looked up, into the sky, and then out over the mountain range. Standing there, with a looming monster of a robot above and a swarm of monsters below – above the whispering tides of the sea and below the splendent silence of the morning sun, Nami made a choice. There were several moments of stillness.

"I found a map, tucked into her armor," offered the Radiant Dawn.

The Tidecaller closed her eyes, and murmured, "Okay."

.

.

.


	16. Desolation

**Warning**: This chapter has a section that is one of the reasons this fic is listed under M for violence. May not be too terrible - but you've been warned, just in case.

* * *

><p>The sound the Machine Herald's communication device made when it severed the link between it and his so-called "CG01-PRIME" struck a strange chord of finality within her. She hoped that Nami would be all right.<p>

"This map marks an area near the Zaunite region of the Ironspike," muttered the scientist, staring down at the scrap of paper stretched on the table before him.

Leona traced it lightly with one ungloved hand. "It's not marked either. Zaun, that is. This map must be very old."

Footsteps rattled down the hall leading to the cockpit. Akali leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. She must have purposely exaggerated her steps to notify them of her coming.

"The pilot says that hovering low enough to pick up the Tidecaller while still on the mountain range will be impossible," she told them simply.

"Then we can meet her at the location. My creation will escort her the rest of the way; it can even carry her there, if need be," replied the Machine Herald, with a wave of his hand.

"And she will be safe?" asked Leona, frowning.

She knew the mountain range well, even if she had spent the majority of her life within the village. Life there was harsh for a reason – vicious creatures, often starved, populated the area. Nami might have been strong, but she was young, lost, and more than likely fatigued.

"I assure you that my Battlecast series far exceeds any organic creature alive," he answered, voice only vaguely cross. The Radiant Dawn had the sneaking suspicion that he was a little affronted by her question. "Of this world or otherwise."

"Assuming that to be true, it concerns me as to why you created them..." muttered the Fist of Shadow. She eyed him warily, mask concealing all other emotion.

"We can concern ourselves with his motives later," broke in the Sheriff of Piltover from the other side of the table. In all honesty, Leona had forgotten she was there. "What's important is what we're going to do now."

She looked at the Machine Herald, and it seemed to her that the two of them had shared some kind of significant glance when Akali began to speak.

"A consensus has been reached that this 'moonstone' is of importance to our situation. Therefore, Shen has advised we rendezvous with the Tidecaller at the location marked by the map and send the Artisan of War and the Radiant Dawn with her to retrieve it – assuming it is there."

The chosen of the sun nodded as the sound of the Machine Herald's rapid typing filled the room. That made sense; she and Pantheon were the most familiar with mountains, and the Solari had had direct relevance to the Lunari at one point. They were the best suited to assist Nami in the search. There was one thing that did bother her, however.

"How will she know where to go?"

"I've transmitted the approximate coordinates to PRIME," said Viktor, tapping out his last orders on the communication device. "It will take her there."

"So that's one thing taken care of," remarked the sheriff, crossing her arms. "But where does that leave the rest of us?"

"Well, the moonstone aside, there are two places we need to be: Piltover, and the bay nearby," supplied Akali.

"Three, in fact," interrupted the Machine Herald.

The Fist of Shadow glanced sharply at him. "The third being?"

"I need to be at the Institute," he replied plainly.

The Institute of War, last they had seen it, was a smoking ruin. What could he possibly want with it?

As if reading their minds, the scientist added, "There is something there I must do."

"You realize that the Institute is comparatively out of the way in regards to our other destinations?" asked Akali cuttingly. From her periphery, Leona could see her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "We cannot afford to waste time on a detour with Piltover – and perhaps all of Runeterra – at stake."

"Piltover is a lost cause," replied the Machine Herald matter-of-factly. Though she could not see it through his mask, the Radiant Dawn assumed the slight turn of his head was to glance at the sheriff, for he added curtly, "If you'll pardon my saying. The bay should be your focus, but even so, the Institute will not be that far from our first destination."

"But that doesn't explain why we should invest the time to take you there. How do we know you aren't simply pushing a Zaunite agenda by convincing us to abandon Piltover?" pressed the Fist of Shadow. "What do you hope to gain from the Institute?"

A moment of silence passed. All eyes were on the Machine Herald, unreadable as ever.

"From the Institute," he said at last, fingers lacing together on the tabletop such that the light glinted off his mechanical knuckles, "I hope to acquire..."

He paused, as if trying to find the right words to say.

"...the ultimate solution to the situation we find ourselves in."

.

.

.

"What do you mean, 'inhuman?' " She took a step forward, a hand going to one of her many knives. "What's happening to my sister?"

The Chain Warden watched her wordlessly, his mouth stretched into that infuriatingly eternal smirk. She had always hated Thresh, in spite of his proclaimed desire to aid. His preference for supporting others in matches had always seemed more like a ruse than anything to her. Now Katarina knew she was correct.

Without even looking at him, the specter finally tore the hook from Renekton's shoulder. The Butcher groaned, collapsing to the ground. A huge hole had been torn in the stretch between his shoulder and neck – the flesh was shredded and the blood ran rivers down his scales. It made her almost want to flinch. Poor beast. Nasus ran immediately to him, and for a moment Katarina thought he would spring right back up to try and kill him, but Renekton only gasped at the ground. He seemed in incredible agony.

"Thresh." It was Sivir, boomerang-blade in hand. Her face was stern – if the Sinister Blade remembered correctly, she had been on the Chain Warden's team more than enough times to have a little history. "Answer the question."

He laughed softly – harshly - with that derisive, acerbic edge to it that he so often had. The one that told people he was laughing at them, rather than with them.

"Why don't you wait," he whispered, "and see?"

Cassiopeia was slithering further into the room now. The keen way the specter watched her made Katarina's blood run cold. Whatever he saw... If it piqued Thresh's interest, it couldn't be good. For a moment, she thought Cass was coming to her – but then she slipped right past her, coiling herself at Renekton's knees. There was a strange tang on her tongue – it tasted of bitterness.

Something sharp whistled past.

Katarina whirled around to see the Battle Mistress's boomerang-blade hurling right for Thresh. The Chain Warden didn't even flinch – simply letting it clip the back of his collar as it passed through the empty space where his neck should've been, swinging back around into Sivir's hands.

"Thresh, if you don't give us answers right now," she growled, catching the blade handily, "the next one _won't _miss."

"Ah, but it is not I who has the answers," he replied, slowly beginning to back into the shadows of the room he had come from.

"Then who does?" the mercenary snapped.

There was a metallic clank. The chamber lit up with green light.

"I can take you to them," came Thresh's voice, sounding eerily like an echo from the depths of the room beyond as he disappeared from view. "But only if you grab the lantern..."

"Oh shit," groaned Sivir, a hand covering her eyes. From the faintest reverberations, they could hear the sound of the specter's mocking laughter. "Not this."

"Do we take it?" she asked, glancing between Nasus fussing over Renekton, and the Battle Mistress.

Thresh being in Shurima was suspicious already – but being able to bring them to someone who had all the answers? It was probably too good to be true. The risky factor was taking the lantern. She hadn't had as much experience as Sivir had in working with him, but Katarina knew how it worked. Being reeled into the Chain Warden, though it had been a saving grace before, seemed more like a death sentence at the moment. Who knew whether or not the lantern wasn't pulling them into certain doom?

"It's not like we have many other options..." muttered the mercenary, visibly gritting her teeth. This was the first time she'd ever looked so conflicted. "Everything else up to this point has been a dead end, otherwise."

"Then the question now is," she realized aloud, "who grabs it."

It was a one-way ticket for one person. So who would bite the bullet and go?

"There is something strange about Renekton," came Nasus's voice, breaking in on their conversation. He sounded troubled. "He has been weakened."

The Sinister Blade glanced over, to where the Butcher knelt panting at the ground. His brother had fixed a bandage around the gash cut open by the Chain Warden's hook, though it was sloppy. Probably because Renekton seemed to refuse to move and he'd had an awkward angle to work with. Renekton himself looked incredibly pale – drained for someone who usually had enough rage to shrug off a sword through his stomach. The cut was deep, but it was still only a flesh wound. This wasn't like him at all.

"Bastard must've done something to him," muttered Katarina, grimacing. "He was never able to keep people on his chain like that during matches."

"Poison?" suggested Nasus warily, beginning to stand.

The Noxian assassin could see the blood trickling down his side and almost winced. As if he noticed, the Curator pressed a hand to his wound like it was an after-thought, though she could've sworn she saw the Battle Mistress glaring at him out of the corner of her eye. In lighter circumstances she might've been amused. They were a strange pair.

"I doubt it," answered Sivir at length, with a scowl. "With Thresh, nothing is ever that simple."

"Well, we're not going to figure anything out just standing here," sighed Katarina. "The question still stands. Who's grabbing it? If we don't hurry, he might just pull it back."

Silence fell over them at that – only the sound of Renekton's heavy breathing echoed in the chamber.

Nasus started, "It might be best if I – "

"I'll go," broke in the Battle Mistress. Her expression was stern, as if she didn't want any argument about it. "I'm not wounded and I don't have a sibling I need to look after. So I'll go."

"Are you being... selfless?" asked Katarina, a little disbelievingly. This was not the money-hoarding, cut-throat, me-myself-and-I mercenary she recalled from before.

"Maybe," was the nonchalant reply. She glanced away.

The Noxian assassin crossed her arms, rearing back on one foot. "I thought this was all business. Didn't know you cared."

The mercenary had already started walking when she turned back to look at them.

"Hey," said Sivir, smiling a little wryly, "we all gotta try it sometime."

She seized the lantern.

.

.

.

Perhaps she was dead.

Kayle had always thought that there would be something better waiting for her at the end of her long, long life – should it ever come. Maybe she was wrong; maybe this was all there was to the afterlife. An eon's lifetime of crusading for order and justice, and this was how she ended up.

Perhaps it was fitting – what kind of paradise could there be for her if she was already an "angel?"

Everything felt humid. Festering. It was dark, and there was something foul in the air. She could see grains in her vision in the shadows. The only light was the soft purple glow of something above, and she turned her head stiffly to look.

A bright slit, a wide eye – its intensity blinded her the same way it entranced her - giant and grotesque and otherworldly all the same. There was a low hum. Something cold lifted her arm and she gasped, feeling the skin behind her shoulder stretch sore and sharp.

"Specimen is damaged," droned the voice, machine-like and dispassionate. Her arm was lifted further and Kayle thought she could feel something around her shoulder blade begin to tear as she was turned on her side. "Endoskeleton appears unique. Previously unseen bone structure protruding from back."

"Monster," she growled, through clenched teeth, "cease and desist...!"

There was a beat of silence. Slowly, her arm was put down.

"Hm... Extraordinary." The light swung around and left her in darkness. Though her senses were still dulled by pain, she could hear the faint sounds of clattering, a shuffling of tools. "To date, none have survived preliminary testing. Perhaps you will be different."

A flash of light – and then, pain.

The Judicator stuffed down a cry as something jolted through the exposed bone where her wings once were. It prickled painfully, and she bit her own tongue in an effort not to gag as the smell of burning flesh filled the air on top of whatever putrid odor already existed.

"You...! I am going to end you...!" she gasped, clawing at the smooth surface of whatever she was lying on.

Her nails sunk in and raked across, some running ragged as they split and her fingers became slippery as the tips began to bleed. Something long and cold encircled the bone stubs and Kayle shuddered, fighting the urge to retch.

It yanked.

Her vision flashed white. She bit into her tongue so hard she could feel her teeth sinking in, the metallic tang starting to fill her mouth as a shrill shriek died in her throat. The Judicator convulsed, curling into herself in an effort not to thrash and exacerbate the creature's hold. Kayle shut her eyes tight, and tried to focus on her breathing. On the very edges of her consciousness, she could hear its low hum.

"Fascinating. High pain threshold in comparison to previous subjects." There was a pause, filled only by the sound of her harsh breaths. "Highly symmetrical bone structure... perhaps if bisected, _this_ subject will grow back?"

"Touch me again and you will burn," she hissed, embracing herself with throbbing hands and stinging fingers as she tried desperately to make herself smaller. The warning was empty, but she would rather make vain threats than throw away her dignity and beg for mercy. The creature hummed again.

"Intriguing reaction to pain," it remarked, before coiling its appendages around her shoulders.

The Judicator cried out as it pulled her off her side and onto her back, the exposed bones clicking against the hard surface nauseatingly. She tried to open her eyes through the pain, squinting up at the bright, violet shine of its monstrous eye as it stared indifferently down at her.

"I do not expect you to survive," it told her. The pupil began to glow brightly and she sucked in a sharp breath. "We shall see."

Her heart began to beat – painfully, palpitating as if it would leap out of her chest – and Kayle began to struggle. The appendages shot out, grasping and pinning her arms down roughly. She thrashed, ignoring the spine-wrenching pain blooming in her back.

"I shall say this preemptively, just in case." The slitted pupil was blindingly bright now. The Judicator pulled one arm free as her hand burned with reckoning. "Thank you for your contribution."

Kayle lunged.

There was a blinding light.

Was that the sound of her screaming?

She had gone straight for the eye with her free hand, and it felt like her fingers had been blasted apart, her bones disintegrated, her skin aflame. The only thing she could feel was a great fire in the palm of her hand and there was a terrible, gargled sound that pitched high into a kind of gurgling shriek. She couldn't feel her finger tips – only the fleshy, sticky sensation at the base of her fingers as they sunk into something that fell away like a wet sheathe.

The light stopped.

There was the sound of something crashing to the ground. The stench of burnt flesh assaulted her senses again, and this time the Judicator did retch. Somewhere in the distance, something creaked – like a door, opening – and a sliver of light passed into the room and she could just barely see the counter she'd been set upon.

She caught a glimpse of her hand. The fingers were mangled – some, missing – and her palm was nearly separated into two sections. There was no blood – everything was perfectly cauterized. Kayle cradled it close, and shuddered.

Someone entered the room. Quiet steps, slowly approaching.

She tried to turn and look, but she could only manage a few stuttering movements of her head, collapsing back against the table with a groan. Her vision was fast fading, fingers twitching as she tried desperately to regain her strength.

"Have you felt it?" someone asked. Their voice was soft, low – almost a whisper – and it reminded her of something long, long ago. "My pain?"

She moved her lips, tried to form words, but she could summon no sound. Cool fingers brushed her hair from her eyes.

Her world turned to darkness.

.

.

.


	17. Trepidation

She knew this place. The pitch blackness, the singular column of light flooding in from far, far above – all of it painted a very familiar picture from the depths of her memory.

It was here that she found reason to join the League.

In the midst of the column floated a lone figure, lit eerily by the rays of the moon. The silvery silhouette was tinted green by the lantern's glow, which swayed slightly as it was drawn back to its owner's hand.

"Come," whispered the Chain Warden. He walked towards the light.

Sivir took a few tentative steps, then stopped. Slowly, she drew her crossblade out.

"It's you," she said simply.

"Battle Mistress," the Magus Ascendant greeted her, low, humming voice reverberating throughout the wide chamber. "I had hoped you would come."

"Why are you here?" demanded the mercenary, holding her blade ready with a white-knuckled grip. "Why is Thresh here? What's going on?"

His stone face remained impassive – not that she had expected it to change. "Are those really the questions you wish to ask? Are you not here concerning... a more pressing matter?"

She scowled, twirling the weapon in her hand. "He said that you had answers. I want them. Now."

"To acquire the right answers," said Xerath unemotionally, "you must ask the right questions."

Of course he would play it difficult.

Sivir bit down a sigh, grinding her teeth together in a bid for patience. These assholes got a kick of riling people up, this she knew all too well.

"What's happening to Cassiopeia?" she asked at length. That was a good place to start – it was the entire reason they were here, at any rate. "How do we fix her? What's with her and Renekton?"

There was a beat of silence. The mage regarded her for a moment, as if processing her queries.

"She is cursed," he said at last, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. "Her deceitful soul has been changed to reflect its true nature. She will become a snake, in all respects."

"Meaning?"

"She will soon lose control. Her humanity will disappear. She will be a snake in mind as well as body and soul," explained Xerath, dispassionately.

_...let it be known henceforth..._

It must have been the silence - there was something ringing in her ears.

"Cassiopeia's soul will become a snake's?" murmured Sivir, eyes wide. "What does that mean...?"

"That everything she has been, is, and will ever be will be no more. That from that point on, she is nothing but a serpent." He seemed to hum, as if in musing. "...It means that even after death, she will no longer be Cassiopeia Du Couteau."

A total wipe, then. The curse would take her right out of the cycle that Nasus was always going on about - if it even existed.

_...any who approach this tomb..._

Sivir grit her teeth, resisting the urge to cover her eyes. Her head... felt strange...

Despite herself,she swallowed something thick in her throat and looked into the light. Focus. Right now, she needed to focus.

"Then what about Renekton? Her weird obsession with him? That's part of it too, isn't it?" pressed the mercenary. There were still some pieces that didn't quite fit. What was the point of it?

"Indeed. The Serpent's Embrace should have undergone her transformation within a week, or perhaps two. The tomb would have then called her back to it. Her entry into the League and the Machine Herald's system slowed that process. After becoming afflicted, her first encounter with anything close to Shuriman in nature was the Butcher of the Sands."

_...will be summarily punished, and if not dissuaded..._

"And so she became called to him, in its place?" supplied Sivir, skeptically. Noise, noise - what - what was that noise...?

"Essentially," replied the Magus Ascendant. "The magic was imperfect – perhaps it became decayed over time."

_...let it be known the unwary trespasser may soon find..._

"But why do this?" she persisted, through gritted teeth. Her head - goddamn - her head... "Why turn her into a monster and then call her back?"

"To create guardians for the tomb, of course. You, of all people, should know this." The edge of the sarcophagus serving as his head rotated to look at her. "It was a curse set by your ancestors, after all."

_...their heart will mirror their soul._

Something cold trickled down her spine.

And suddenly, her mind was clear.

"What?" whispered Sivir.

"I hate to admit, but they were not total fools; a failsafe, in the case that their bloodline could guard my resting place no longer. Or, in your case, lost connection to their origins."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she growled, twirling her blade once. Like hell she would let Xerath play games with her. "If you don't start making sense within two seconds..."

Something cold and sharp pressed into her neck.

"You'll what?" murmured Thresh, echoing voices like a ghostly legion. A metal gauntlet settled on her shoulder, and she almost whirled around to try and end him there and then. "Don't forget who's in control here, Battle Mistress."

"It's very simple," said the Magus Ascendant, leaving the column of light to approach her. "You are descended from the leader of the very mages that sealed me, so long ago."

He drifted close, until she had to squint her eyes to deal with the intensity of his crackling glow, circling her like a hawk.

"They sought to keep vigilance over me, but as Shurima fell and the centuries passed, forgot their purpose. Then you arrived, and when the Serpent's Embrace opened the doors to this chamber and undid the magic seal, you freed me."

She had warned Cassiopeia not to just throw open those damned doors. It had been, of course, another in a long list of warning she hadn't heeded during their venture. A weapon of pure magical energy, more potent than any arcane crystal – she knew that Noxus had been eager to get its hands on it, but what they ended up setting loose on the world was much worse.

Sivir had always known that something about Xerath was inherently dangerous. Just a gut feeling that stuck out to her, a hunch that told her she had to put him down. When she had joined the League, it had been mostly for rep – but chasing after the mage had a little to do with it. That gut feeling might make sense if she descended from a line of people who'd devoted their lives to keeping him under lock and key – but that couldn't be possible.

"You're bullshitting," she muttered. "How could I be descended from powerful mages when I can barely manage enough magic for a damn spell shield?"

It was true that she had no idea where she'd come from – who her parents were or why she'd been found near some ruins. The mercenary had always assumed it had merely been a sign of what her calling in life was. The only thing that she had ever known and had ever needed to know for sure was that she was Shuriman, through and through.

"Blood can thin over the years," answered Xerath simply, stopping before her. "And yet, it will still have its uses."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked warily, taking a step back. She could feel the Chain Warden's grip tighten, his form standing immobile behind her.

"You see this lock on the chains that bind me, do you not?" He stepped closer, and she could see the glowing stone – a yellow, geometric swirl cutting rivulets into its center. "It can be unlocked by no physical key. I had thought that by absorbing enough magical energy, I could destroy it – but I was wrong."

"And what's that got to do with me?" The Battle Mistress tried to back up further, only to be held still by Thresh. Her ears were starting to ring – or maybe that was the beating of her heart. "Why are you telling me this?"

Xerath drew close, extending one jagged arm.

"I will only need a little."

.

.

.

Smoke and rubble.

That was what he expected to see, at least, after hearing Piltover had been totally sacked by the Voidborn. Zaun, on the other hand, looked completely fine – just, empty. There wasn't a soul in sight, and honestly speaking, he wasn't sure whether that worried him more.

Where could all the denizens of a bustling, industrial-complex go? And that fast? It would've taken at least a month to scrape together enough resources to evacuate even half the city, let alone muster enough motivation out of the resident crazies that kept everyone under their thumbs. A month that they hadn't had.

It'd been a bit of a difficult choice to make to leave Annie and Amumu alone, but it had been the right one. Annie's parents had come back, and they had an entire community to look after them. If the Voidborn swept through, they wouldn't be in terrible hands. In the end, he was just too concerned about Zaun to wait for the whole thing to blow over.

And there was still the matter of Twitch.

Zac anchored himself to the side-railing on a balcony, pulling his arms taut before letting go and slinging himself far and away to the next roof over. From there, he had a great view of the entire city and beyond, past its walls into the bay it shared with Piltover.

"What the hell?"

He strained his non-existent ears, but he couldn't hear anything; not surprising, considering the distance, but he thought, maybe worth a try considering there seemed to be some _crazy, epic battle_ going on down in the bay. The Secret Weapon could make out a lot of figures – some huge, some small, some human-looking, some monstrous – and a definitive struggle happening, but who any of them were and why they were fighting he couldn't figure beyond an educated guess.

Did that nut-job seer manage to open the Void after all? Is that what was happening down there? And if that was the case, the question of just _where_ the citizens of Zaun were became even more pressing.

An explosion to the east rocked the building, and he had to cling to the shingles on the rooftop to keep his balance. Zac whirled around to look. Through the huge plume of dust that was rising, he could make out more figures – a couple humanoid ones, and a giant one that definitely looked like it was about to eat them.

That was his cue.

Catapulting himself off the roof with a sharp inhale, he sprang off the side of the next building to bounce his way over to the scene. If he hadn't got into some good old fisticuffs with the creature before and gotten a good look at him then, he might've thought the monster before him was Cho'Gath himself. He was certainly rocking the Void-look – extra body parts and alien coloring and all. Whatever he was, he was definitely about to eat that guy he had pinned underneath him and so he pulled an arm back for a stretching strike, quickly knocking the monster off balance as the human scrambled for safety.

"They never pick on anyone their own size," he mumbled to himself, shaking out his hand. Those exoskeletons were _sharp_.

The monster roared, scrambling back to its feet before a strong gust knocked it back over. Suddenly, it was consumed by an onslaught of laser-projectiles. Zac barely had time to blink and look over his shoulder before it was down and out.

"Zac!"

He knew that airy voice anywhere.

"Janna!" He whirled around to greet her, smiling broadly. "What're you doing in Zaun?"

The sorceress glided up to him, bird familiar in tow. "I could ask the same of you. Everyone should have evacuated already."

"I was looking after some kids, but I came back to see if things were all right," he told her, before glancing back at the smoldering mess, adding sheepishly, "and it looks like they are."

She shook her head, expression sobering as she led him back to the group of people she'd been with. There were at least ten of them in the alleyway, including the one he'd saved – some were hooded, masked, armed with blades as part of some kind of uniform he didn't recognize, and others were much more recognizable. Between two hooded ones, they supported a familiar face.

"Kassadin?" he exclaimed, half in shock and half in worry. The man did not look in good health.

"He was heavily wounded trying to stall for reinforcements, and now we need to get him to shelter so he can recuperate," Janna explained, motioning for them to keep moving. The Voidwalker groaned softly as he was dragged along, breathing sounding unnaturally harsh through his mask.

"What's happening out there? Who are all these people?"

"You know the Machine Herald's acolytes, I'm sure," she answered, gesturing to four of them with their laser weapons and mechanical augments, who nodded at him. "And the rest are part of Kassadin's Preservers of Valoran."

" 'Preservers of Valoran?' Then I'm guessing that crazy mess in the bay is..."

"The Prophet's work," she confirmed, turning slightly to look at him. "He managed to open a tear to the Void."

That... made him a little ill.

Zac took a moment to steady his step as his vision decided to fade out for a second. No - no way in hell. An open tear for those monsters to pour out of? "You – you've gotta be kidding."

"I'm not," the sorceress replied, shaking her head as they rounded a corner onto a main street. "I was in Demacia visiting Lux when this happened, and I got sent out with some soldiers to try and contain the situation in the bay. Both Kassadin and the Machine Herald already had some people out fighting, so we just joined together, but... it doesn't look good."

"We'd been out there three days already, with the Battlecast series and the Voidwalker's men," said one of the acolytes, "but they just kept coming. Even if the other city-states send reinforcements, only the Battlecast can hold a line against that onslaught, and who knows how long they'll last."

"The most powerful of them was pulled away, too," added another, "why, I've no idea, but it's no longer on that battlefield."

Their conversation cut itself short as another explosion, somewhere south, shook the ground. There was a distant roar, and the Secret Weapon, ducking under a lamp post, thought he heard one of the preservers curse.

"There's a storm coming," murmured Janna. Her voice was calm but there was an unmistakable gravity to it. "They must be after Kassadin – we need to find shelter."

"Nowhere above-ground is safe. Those monstrosities will simply tear the city apart building-by-building looking for him," pointed out the only female preserver.

"I've got a place," said Zac, eyeing a manhole cover on the ground, "but I don't think you'll like it."

.

.

.


	18. Peripeteia

Magic burned. This was what the back of her hand was telling her – the stone stung, but the magic burned.

Sivir shook her hand out slightly, trying to shrug off Thresh as she felt the hook press ever deeper into her neck. The Magus Ascendant still had his arm extended, though pushed to the side slightly after she'd batted it away, and it was slowly moving back towards her.

"_Don't_ touch me," she snapped, holding her crossblade out in front of her. "I don't know what the hell you want, but you're not getting near me."

"Hold her still," said Xerath, paying no heed to her. The mercenary felt the specter's grip tighten.

"Dammit, Thresh, what have you got to gain out of this?" she asked, starting to struggle. The Chain Warden only chuckled lowly.

"Don't move too much," he whispered in her ear. "Or I'll slice your throat open."

Xerath grabbed her arm, reaching around her crossblade, and Sivir winced, feeling the tip of the hook draw a little blood. What the hell was going on? What were they going to do? She felt Thresh let go. The hook moved away, and then – there was a puff of smoke.

She was stumbling forward suddenly. The Battle Mistress turned around, catching a face full of red hair as Katarina leapt for Thresh, blades first.

"Sivir!"

Was that - ?

It was Nasus, stumbling in now. She ducked under a shocking orb, threading past the mage as she tried to put some distance between them. Why? How? There shouldn't have been anyway to get the jump on them like that, this chamber had only a narrow passage to the platform - she remembered from last time she was here.

"Battle Mistress!" yelled Xerath, whirling around to face her. "I _will_ kill you if necessary!"

"I'd like to see you try!" she shot back, slinging out her crossblade. It glanced off the Magus Ascendant's side, and he faltered in the air. Sivir spun on her heel, catching it on the back swing as she finally fell into step with Nasus.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, leaning on his staff for support.

"I should be asking you that," she snorted, shooting a significant glance at his open wound. He had a hand pressed over it, but she could see the blood on his fingers.

"I will live. What is more pressing is – " He cut himself short as they both scattered to dodge an arcanopulse.

"This mess," she huffed, crouching low, "I know."

"Do not interfere, Curator," called Xerath, starting to move towards them. "This is is a matter between us and the Battle Mistress alone."

"What involves her involves me," he answered firmly, and he pulled himself in front of her, halberd held ready. What was this fool thinking? Who was the injured one here, exactly?

"Are you prepared to fight for her?" the mage asked, eyes glowing brightly. There was something ominous about his voice - something that set her on edge.

"We fight together," Nasus answered calmly.

"You're injured!" she snapped, brushing past to stand next to him. "Are you stupid?"

"You die together," said Xerath simply.

The air crackled.

"No sell," she growled, as the remnants of her spell shield dissipated around her. Nasus had dived to the side to avoid the eye of destruction.

"Do you think you can fight me? The armies of Shurima could not handle me!" he yelled, firing shot after shot after her.

Sivir breathed harshly through her nose, spinning quickly on her heel to dodge another. He was a sitting duck, just hovering there, but all this running - she couldn't aim like this. A brief flash of light - she threw herself to the ground as something crackled overhead. There was something hot at her back, as if lightning had struck just above. The Battle Mistress sucked in a sharp breath, pushing herself off the dirt.

Sharp pain.

It had just barely glanced off her heel, and she crumpled to the ground again, gritting her teeth. Sivir took shallow breaths, gritting her teeth. The pain - the pain would subside soon.

"Enough. Become _dust!_"

A sound like the hissing of swirling sands. She looked up, at Xerath wrapped in withering coils.

"Hah! Do you think time means anything to me?" he roared, and his movements were jerky as he struggled, the dark flames of spirit fire beneath him. "I am ageless!"

There was a bright light from above. The Battle Mistress scrambled off the ground, just barely missing another strike. Another flash of light.

She glanced to Xerath, rooted where he was, and then back at the incoming barrage. If she could just close the gap a little bit...

The mercenary dashed forward, throwing out her crossblade again. She could hear the electrified sounds of destruction behind her – the ground shook – but there wasn't any heat for what should've been hot on her heels. The blade hit Xerath dead center and he was knocked to the side. His pieces seemed to slacken – like the energy wasn't keeping it together quite right anymore – but he stood back up anyway, though grounded, eyes still ablaze.

"I didn't miss," was all he said.

She whirled around.

"Nasus!"

He knelt, form smoking, hand still clamped to his side. "I... will be fine..."

The Battle Mistress took a step towards him – the air crackled again.

"If you move, he dies," hissed the Magus Ascendant, rising from the ground.

"Xerath, you're a son of a b-!"

There was a sharp pain. Sivir stumbled to the ground, hand flying to the area between her neck and shoulder.

"This time, you'll cooperate," murmured Thresh, pulling tight. She gasped, digging her fingers into the hook to try and dig it out. There was something draining about it – her head was spinning, her vision was fading. She shut her eyes, teeth clenched tight as she collapsed to her hands and knees.

"Katarina? What...?"

"Easily dealt with," answered the Chain Warden, tone mockingly soothing as he jerked her back upwards. She could feel him come up behind her.

"You're a bastard," she managed through gritted teeth, cracking one eye open. A way's up, she could see Katarina on the ground, struggling for her blade. How? How had she been taken down by Thresh?

Xerath was before her now, kneeling in front.

"Proceed," he said.

The hook in her neck was yanked out and she stifled a cry. Already, the mercenary could feel the warm trickle of blood, the stinging of torn flesh, and it didn't do anything for her dizzying sight. The specter seized her left arm, raising it up as Xerath grabbed the lock on his chains and pulled it as far from him as it would go. She could feel the hook pressed to the inside of her wrist, and he slashed right through the leather wrappings around her glove. Sivir winced.

There was a dribble of blood. Despite her wavering vision, she watched, transfixed as it dripped off the lock, red filling yellow as the geometric swirl lit up. Xerath stood. The chains fell heavily to the ground.

"It is done." The pieces of his sarcophagus trembled – then burst outwards. "I am free!"

A sudden, nauseating wave of power hit her, and she shuddered. The air electrified, static with the release of pure energy.

So this was how it went, then.

Thresh released her, and she fell to the floor face-down, grasping at stone trying to get back up. She could barely lift her head, and the Battle Mistress grit her teeth, forehead into the ground as she struggled to get back to her feet.

"Behold, my power!" laughed the Magus Ascendant. "I am the will of man unbound by flesh!"

She heard the clanking sounds of metal dragging on the ground.

"Unbound indeed," said Thresh. "Now you're nothing but magic and soul."

Green light.

"Betrayal, is it?" He laughed even louder. "Those chains cannot hold me either, jailer."

There was no answer.

The sound of electricity in the air. The sound of stone against metal against stone.

Something was burning, hot against her back. Smoke filled her nose, ashes filled her mouth.

A little click, like the opening of a latch.

Above her, in front of her, it was like it was all around her – she could hear a gasping, moaning, rasping call that seemed to suck the air from her lungs. It sounded like death and tasted like despair, swirling about her like a vortex, and Sivir shut her eyes tight, hands clenched into fists as she willed it to pass.

"I think you'll find," whispered Thresh, his voice low and menacing, "that they are more than capable."

There was a loud, anguished cry.

Silence. Then the sound of soft laughter. She could breathe again.

"Are you alive, Battle Mistress?" murmured the Chain Warden. "I wouldn't mind taking your soul as well..."

"Don't touch me," she snapped, struggling to look up at the looming specter. He only smirked his eternal smirk at her and knelt, laying a potion at her hands. "What's that for?"

"The most delightful souls," he told her eagerly, "are the strongest. You have not reached the apex of your strength yet."

She managed to pop the cap on it and took a swig, tilting her head back at an awkward angle to the chug the thing down. Already, she could feel the energy coming back to her, and though the wound still stung like hell, it wasn't bleeding as much. Painfully, the mercenary managed to pull herself into a sitting position. She needed to get Katarina and Nasus medical attention, but she could barely muster the energy to stand. And then there was the matter of Thresh...

"You're mad," she muttered, clutching at the wound in the crook of her neck.

"Me, mad?" He laughed. "Aha, quite likely."

"All of this, for one soul?"

"He wasn't exaggerating the extent of his power, once unbound," answered Thresh simply, examining his lantern with an idle tilt of his head.

"And what did you do to Katarina? You always take the _support_ role during matches," Sivir pointed out, words on a heavy exhale as she struggled to catch her breath.

"Once the Institute lets us off their leash, it's rather surprising what we can manage, isn't it?" he replied. His tone was soft, but menacing, and it only emphasized to her the fact that he hadn't really answered any of her questions. Thresh hummed to himself, giving his lantern a prod as it swung back and forth on its hinges.

"What will you do with Xerath?" she asked warily, glancing towards him.

"Take care of your friends, Battle Mistress. They need to be strong, for later," he said instead, turning to leave with sickle and lantern in hand.

"Wait!" she called out. "That's it, you're just going to...?"

The Chain Warden turned back to look at her, spectral fire glowing eerily in the darkness. He tucked his lantern into his coat – the light faded.

"Take care," he said again, voice barely above a whisper.

And suddenly, she was left in darkness.

.

.

.

The map had led them to a cave.

It was an enormous one, to be sure – with a wide, gaping maw of an entrance, cut in a spiraling pattern that heralded its origin as a creation of man. This was something they had only been able to tell after most of the foliage had been cut away, of course, or else they might've passed it by none the wiser. Leona traced the curvature of the wall with a gloved hand. It was weathered nearly smooth by nature and time.

"I've the torch," said Pantheon, coming up beside her. "We shouldn't dawdle."

"Your machine will stand guard?" she called over her shoulder, looking at the towering robot looming over the entrance.

"It has its orders," replied the Machine Herald, voice tinny and distant as it rang out from the speakers on the monster's shoulders.

"Let's go," said the Tidecaller, swimming past.

She was anxious – at the very least, ill at ease – this much Leona could tell from the way she gripped her staff, with tight and tremulous hands. The poor child. The opening of a tear into the Void signified disaster for Runeterra, but for Nami, it may well have been the end of the world as she knew it. The Radiant Dawn could only hope that they wouldn't acquire the moonstone only to be too late.

Once inside the cavern, its broad mouth slimmed quickly into a narrow tunnel. It was wide enough that she and Pantheon could walk side-by-side with little issue, but the available space was robbed considerably by the statues that lined its length. They were tall, stone figures, with heads bowed low as if in reverence, clutching khopeshes not unfamiliar.

"These statues aren't meant to ward away visitors," she murmured to herself, gazing wonderingly up at them as the torch's flame lent a dull, red shine to gray stone.

"Neither are they meant to welcome them," added her childhood friend, without looking. Nami contributed no comments, walking ahead of them. "Rather..."

It was more as if they were... paying respects, so to speak. Honoring the one who walked this hall.

"It feels as though... there was only meant to be one person who should pass through here," she remarked softly.

She could see Pantheon glancing at her from the corner of her eye, but Leona kept her expression even. They both knew who she meant.

"There's light up ahead," noted the Tidecaller.

"Strange," she said. Even if it was midday, there shouldn't be any light in a cavern, however faint.

The dark tunnel, dimly lit by the fire of a single torch, emptied out into a rounded chamber. A single shaft of light poured from some distant opening in the ceiling, which was itself so distant that they could see nothing but the extensive blackness into which it faded.

"There it is," whispered Nami.

In the center of the room was the object of their search.

It shone brightly, scattering beams of sunlight throughout the room like some sort of focal point resting atop an altar of obsidian. Its radiance made it blinding – Leona had to shade her eyes in order to gaze upon it.

"You have the abyssal pearl?" she asked, looking to the Tidecaller.

The Marai nodded, twisting off the bottom of her staff. Out from it fell the pearl, ebon in color, and – after replacing its removed end – she laid the staff to ground and moved towards the moonstone. Nami stopped, suddenly.

"What is it?"

"It's... there's a reflecting pool," she said, glancing downwards. "Look."

The Radiant Dawn moved to stand beside her, Pantheon following suit. There was indeed a reflecting pool surrounding the altar, the water dark and mirror-like as it reflected back to them their respective visages. In it, they could see the moonstone.

"The way it looks with the moonstone and all," remarked Nami, "it's almost like..."

"The night sky," she finished for her. "With a full moon."

"So if I take it, and replace it with the abyssal pearl, then... does it become a new moon?"

The thought consumed them in silence for a moment. If the moonstone were always exchanged with an abyssal pearl, if the agreement were a centennial affair, then could it be...?

"It does," confirmed Leona, awed. "It becomes the next moonstone – an abyssal pearl after a hundred years' exposure to light."

"A kind of cycle, then," noted Pantheon, almost to himself.

"I'm the first Tidecaller to see what happens to the abyssal pearl after the exchange," murmured Nami, plucking the gleaming stone from its perch and replacing it with the dark pearl. The light dimmed considerably. "So this is how it goes..."

The Lunari's chosen must have used this chamber for some kind of communion with the moon. A reading in the reflection pool, perhaps. Some kind of ritual that was beyond them.

This was a place meant only for the Chosen of the Moon, after all.

"Diana must have been searching for this," whispered Leona, "for so long."

The scattered notes in her armor, the long nights she spent in the archives. Diana had found her calling in the heat of battle, after a long, desperate search to find proof that what she believed in was real. She must have wanted, so badly, to understand her role – and what came next.

Her chest ached strangely at that realization.

The Marai glanced at her, and in her eyes the Radiant Dawn could see the regret they shared. But even when Pantheon reached out and touched her shoulder, Leona kept her expression steely. She could not afford to be weak – not now.

"We have what we came for," she said, turning to leave. "Now let us put it to use."

.

.

.

"When you said you had a place, I was hoping it would be... _cleaner_."

He shrugged, offering her a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Right now this is the safest place in Zaun, if you don't want those monsters finding us. Too bad you're not made of goo; the dirt wouldn't stick."

"It's not the dirt that's the problem," she replied, wrinkling her nose.

"Well I thought this place could use a little gooping up," said Twitch nonchalantly, skittering back and forth. He sidled up to one of his various nail-clipping jars, stroking it affectionately. "Gives it a little... _pizazz_."

He was really glad he totally lacked olfactory senses, because otherwise Zac wasn't sure he could have roomed with the Plague Rat. During his stint as a vigilante in Zaun, he'd hung out in the sewers with Twitch and kept him company - trying to teach him the finer points of civilized living before they'd both moved on to the League.

He watched as Janna trailed over to where Kassadin was, propped up on an old couch that was only half-there and that Zac had to convince her wasn't crawling with parasites. A few on-hand potions, a little help from the sorceress to clear Zaun's putrid air, and the man was looking less pale. He'd been bleeding pretty heavily from a few places – the Secret Weapon was surprised to see that most of the wounds had closed already. Whatever he was getting pumped through that mask, it was definitely something useful.

The others that had come with them – Kassadin's followers and Viktor's acolytes – were milling about trying to deal with the smell. It was obvious how on edge they were; they reached for their weapons every time there was a faint rumble. He couldn't blame them. It was like all hell had broken loose up there. The only thing Zac hadn't expected was that there were no Demacian soldiers with them, seeing as Janna had supposedly come in with a platoon of them. Had she gotten side-tracked, or separated? Were they still fighting or had they gotten wiped?

He grimaced, not particularly enjoying that train of thought. Their only hope to keep Valoran clear of the Voidborn was to hold them at the beach. If they lost there, then...

"Stop moving my stench!" yelled the Plague Rat, waving his arms at Janna angrily.

"Then stay away from me! And my patient!" she snipped back, crossing her arms with a hmph. Twitch skittered backwards, away from them, gnashing his teeth.

"Sorry man," he said, moving to stand next to him. "They're not used to Zaun's sewers and its... fineries."

"_Obviously_," huffed the rat, fiddling with his broken goggles. "They should be thankful I'm even letting them in here! They're _my_ guests. So ungrateful!"

"_Our_ guests," muttered the Secret Weapon under his breath, glancing aside. Twitch's ears perked up.

"What was that?"

"No,uh, they appreciate it. Really," he said instead, voice what he hoped was soothing. He knew how peeved it made him when people ragged on their pad - it was the territorial aspect of his rat origins, Zac figured. "Everyone's just a little stressed with how things are right now. When this all blows over, I'll get you the biggest, stinkiest cheese wheel on the continent and we can pretend no one was ever here."

The Plague Rat's nose twitched this way and that, his ears straightening up. "...Promise?"

"Promise."

His friend giggled strangely at that, no doubt delighted. He didn't know where he'd get that cheese, but he was sure he'd manage it somehow. Just like they'd manage this.

"You shouldn't be getting up!"

He snapped his head around, to where Janna had been tending Kassadin. The Voidwalker was struggling to rise, half-supported and half-held back by the Storm's Fury.

"Can't you feel it?" he said, through what sounded like gritted teeth. "It's as if... the tear has widened."

"What do you mean?" she asked, concerned.

"I can't – I don't know how I can explain it. I need to leave. I need to leave right now."

"You're still wounded!"

"Maybe you should listen to her," broke in Zac, a little reluctantly. He seemed pretty riled up, whatever it was. "It's no good to run out and get yourself killed."

"No, he's right. Don't you hear it?" whispered Twitch, springing up between them. The Secret Weapon stumbled backwards a little, barely containing a surprised yelp. "Something's here... Something dangerous."

"Then we should move," chimed in the one female preserver. "Before it finds us. We are ill-equipped right now for an engagement."

Janna whirled around. "Kassadin!"

He was already going for the door, riftwalking out in a flash. She tried to follow him, but Zac pulled her back, gesturing for the others to stay as well. Kassadin was really serious about going, and going alone. Maybe they should respect that.

"Hang on. He has to know what he's doing, right? I think we should just let him be."

"He's going to get himself killed," one of the acolytes observed dispassionately. "We can't afford that."

"Doesn't mean we should run out after him blindly. We need to be careful too," he replied, grimacing. "Twitch said something was in the sewer, something really dangerous."

"That," came a purring whisper from the shadows, "would be me."

.

.

.

"Have we made it?"

He wanted to laugh. It was such a foolish question to ask, and for a soldier, too. All too hopeful in the face of war.

The putrid stench of blood and death hung heavily in the air, settling like a film on his tongue until his mouth felt full of ash. A soft sea-breeze blew through the tense stillness, swelling with the tang of salt and the fullness of water. Monsters and men alike littered the bay, their mangled bodies a testament to the fierce battle that had occurred.

"I can't believe it..." gasped the same soldier, struggling to stand. "Captain, did we actually beat them back?"

"Be still." The Might of Demacia glanced side to side, grip kept tight on his sword. "Something is strange about this."

He strained his ears for sounds of life, of death, for something other than the groaning pants of his surviving soldiers as they stood exhausted around him and the persistent slosh of receding tides. There were footsteps fast approaching.

"Cho'Gath! He's missing!" cried Lux, running up to him. He turned to face her.

She must have gotten too close to one of those damned Voidborn, for her armor was scratched, her face splashed with their viscous blood. His younger sister stopped to breathe, hunching over slightly with her hands on her knees. She must have been utterly drained. Garen frowned, shifting to a one-handed grip and resting his sword on the ground.

"What do you mean by missing?" he asked, wiping the blood off her face with the end of his scarf. "Was he not slain? Did he flee?"

"We don't know," she answered, shaking her head. Lux pushed his hand aside, rubbing at her cheek with the back of her own. "We couldn't find a body. In the frenzy, I don't think anyone kept track of him."

"This is ominous," Garen murmured, surveying the devastated battlefield once again. "That something so monstrous as the Terror of the Void could simply disappear... I don't believe victory is yet – "

The air changed.

He stopped short, whirling around with his sword at ready. The Prophet of the Void stood before them – on the ground – clapping slowly.

"– ours," he finished, eyes narrowing. "You."

Behind him, he could hear Lux inhale sharply, and she peeked around his shoulder to see, staff held ready.

"Impressive that mere humans managed to survive," he said simply. He glanced downwards to observe the remains of a decimated Kha'Zix mech before him, shoving it aside with the toe of his boot. "Granted that you had much help."

"Get to your point," he snapped. "Quickly."

The Prophet let out a raspy laugh, leaping backwards into his usual hover. "I merely wanted to congratulate you. A small reward for surviving the first wave."

"Then there's more?" His teeth clenched tight. He could hear his jaw creak.

"Plenty more," replied the Prophet, watching them with bright eyes. "This is just the beginning, after all."

In merely his gaze, his madness was palpable, and it was then that the Might of Demacia knew. This fool would destroy them all.

"Garen!" his sister gasped. "The ocean!"

On the sea-bound horizon there emerged several large, lumbering figures, and he could feel his stomach coil tightly in preparation for what was to come – but even more alarming was the distant sound of rushing water. An endless splashing like the bottom of a waterfall. The shoreline was falling away rapidly, as if the ocean were draining, and it was then that he could see. Along a wide split – shaped like the slit of a cat's eye – fell water, as if into a bottomless crevasse.

And it was then that he understood.

"The tear," he murmured, taking a shaky step forward. In the distant reaches of his awareness, he heard Malzahar laugh. That fool, that bastard, that _miserable wretch._

The tear wasn't only there to allow the Voidborn into their world.

It was there to consume it.

.

.

.


	19. Anguish

"I don't see how you can hope to salvage anything from _this_."

This was but one moment in a long line of many that he regretted consenting to the sheriff's request. Any more of this ceaseless sniping, and Viktor feared he would go mad. It was useless to question why he had allowed the fool to come along – he was a contingency, the Herald assured himself, and not the result of his all too accommodating disposition towards the sheriff – but it was certainly tempting. Perhaps eventually no answer would come to him, and he could finally be rid of the so-called Defender of Tomorrow.

Unfortunately not so.

"The Prophet may have the gift of foresight," began Viktor tersely, stepping over the crumbled remains of a fallen pillar, "but he lacks hindsight. The Respawn Room is heavily reinforced, underground. It will not have been damaged in this slaughter."

"That seems a rather glaring slip for how convoluted the rest of this mess has been," remarked the sheriff. He could hear the skepticism in her voice. "You're not simply grasping for straws here?"

"It was no small feat to have sabotaged it once – he will certainly have known that. In his complacence, I doubt he saw it necessary to sabotage it twice."

"Except Malzahar can see the future," pointed out Jayce, impatiently. "How couldn't he have known it would be fixed?"

He certainly made no effort at civility with his constant contrarian-ism, not that Viktor particularly cared. But it was glaringly obvious how little he trusted the Machine Herald – in fact, he'd come along for the sheriff's safety, with her partner out of commission. The implication behind those words made him want to scoff. Even if they were really enemies as politics would deem, it wasn't as if he currently had any motive to attack her.

"I sealed that room tight before evacuating," he answered coolly. "Considering its structural integrity and the fact that the Institute hasn't been completely leveled, I am confident it is as I left it – completely within working order."

He paused, drawing out the crystal to examine it very briefly before replacing it in his pocket.

"With this, it will be _in_ working order."

And spinning sharply on his heel, he made the swift turn about the corner.

Something caught on the corner of a dilapidated wall – where the inner wood-work and wiring could be seen – drew his eye, hanging off it haphazardly as if it'd been accidentally flung in a haste. A very familiar object. Viktor snatched it from its place as he went by with barely a glance, keeping a constant pace and tucking it under his cloak for safe-keeping. From his periphery he could see the others exchange a curious glance, but he offered no explanation – it was of no bearing to them, and leaving it there was a waste.

Underfoot, he felt the ground tremble.

Immediately, all three of them paused. In the distance, they could hear a sound like crumbling walls – as if some structure that had retained its precarious position only through luck had finally been disturbed. Eyes narrowing, the sheriff glanced at him, then the Defender briefly.

"What was that?" she asked, voice low. There was another tremor.

"You don't think those could be..." The fool trailed off, swinging his Mercury Hammer into a readied position. The sheriff was quick to follow, rifle drawn, the gears and scopes whirring into place.

"Footsteps," Viktor had enough time to say.

And suddenly, they were in the air.

He hit the ground hard, knocking what little breath there was in his lungs out of him. The Machine Herald sat up quickly, with a cough. In hindsight he wished he'd replaced his respiratory system when he got the chance, but a quick glance at the sheriff and the Defender, struggling to leave the ground, told him he was better off regardless. If he weren't mostly sturdy metal by this point, he certainly would have been in poor straights.

"That was a targeted rupture," he huffed, getting to his feet. "He knows we're here. We have to go, quickly."

"You're gonna have to give us a moment," groaned the Defender, barely on his knees. He scrabbled at the ground to get ahold of his precious hammer. "_Fuck_. He hits hard."

There was an ominous creaking. From his augmented senses, he could feel something like a shift in the air.

"_Quickly,_" repeated the Machine Herald, weight shifting from one foot to the other in his agitation.

"Viktor," gasped the sheriff, pulling her own rifle to her with difficulty, "I don't think – "

Her words gave way to a hiss as he hauled her up roughly by the arm, supporting her against him as they took on a staggering pace. She'd landed on her front, so her ribs must have been bruised or some such thing if she was in that much pain, and he made a mental note to seek medical attention for it later. What was important was that they left the area, and immediately. He could still feel the faint tremors of the ground – hear the foreboding creak and groan of something about to give way.

"Oh shit!" yelled Jayce.

There was the loud screech of metal. The cracking of wood.

The archway above came crumbling down.

Viktor thought fast.

There was the briefest second of heaviness – the fleeting sensation of raining debris, hard and rough, and then – weightlessness. He waited for the telltale click to confirm its deployment before he let his guard down.

A second of stillness, of disbelief – the fool stared out over the rubble suspended in the air, wooden beams and metal framing gently floating away.

"I don't know why," he breathed out wonderingly, swimming out from its radius and stepping back on solid ground with an awkward gait, "I never considered the possibility that you could reverse your gravity field."

"Law of equals and opposites," was his noncommittal reply, managing to struggle out of it with the sheriff in tow. "But we won't be able to rely on it a second time."

There was a familiar screech in the distance. Far, yet very near, if the trembling windows, that had survived, were any indication.

"I can manage on my own now, I think," said the sheriff, pulling away from him. But still, she staggered, and he yanked her back, disconcertingly noting the increasing strength and frequency of the tremors.

"Not at this pace." Gesturing for Jayce to move, he took up a brisk walk, nearly dragging her along. "Cho'Gath is liable to arrive any second."

A tense several seconds of walking; the sound of their heavy breathing and frantic footsteps echoed off the walls.

Why was Cho'Gath here? Had his acolytes been routed? Had the Battlecast line fallen? Or had Malzahar already known their intentions, already predicted his plan? Thoughts flitted through his head at lightning speed, organizing with ease even as the very beating of his heart seemed to pound in his ears. No, the Prophet must have known, or at least had some kind of inkling, foresight aside. There was no way he would have endeavored to sabotage the system in the first place if he did not anticipate what was to come.

He heard the sheriff suck in a sharp breath. The world became dark.

And then the hallway beside them blew open.

Viktor fought to maintain his balance, grip tightening on the sheriff as he tried to pull them both along. He could hear Jayce mutter a curse, firing a shock blast into the rising dust before opening an acceleration gate in front of them.

"Come on!" the so-called Defender yelled, between breaths.

The earth thundered, and above he could hear the Terror's shrieking roars. The Machine Herald could only pick up his pace, ignoring the sheriff's stifled grunts as she nearly tripped over her own feet trying to match his speed.

Cho'Gath was massive now, having devoured countless and grown without the arbitrary limit the Institute had imposed on him. Without the shackles of the system, he was nigh invincible – this was something the Machine Herald knew all too well as he struggled through the crumbling halls, dragging along the injured sheriff.

Jayce had disappeared from his field of view and the fleeting echo of a shock blast told him that the Defender had foolishly tried to play hero and stay behind. But the Terror of the Void must have known their motives. There was no end to his ear-piercing screech. Everywhere the Herald turned was collapsing rubble. Was it intent pursuit, or the mere scope of his power? It was as if there was no escape.

Their entire world was quaking. Debris glanced off his mask. His display cracked, and he grit his teeth and tried to move on. Had the Institute been so devastated that the entire facility was coming down?

Some way's back, Cho'Gath let loose a feral scream. Cracked windows shattered. He pulled the sheriff close, tried to shield her from the glass – but when he glanced at her, her ears were bleeding.

"I... I can't..." she gasped. Was the disorientation setting in already?

"Endure it," he grunted. He could feel her weight shift; her balance was going.

"I can't hear anything... on my right..." murmured the sheriff, as if dazed. "Viktor...?"

Where? Where? The Terror was closing in. They needed to get to the Respawn Room _now_.

He saw it – the half-leveled corridor where the staircase was.

"There!" he managed, now barely able to shuffle towards it.

There was a different sound then, soft and shuddering, barely noticeable by his augmented senses amidst the chaos. The fragmentation of stone.

Without thinking, he shoved the sheriff forward.

There was a great and terrible crack.

"Viktor!"

.

.

.

He'd done this before.

The long stretch of running, the sound of destruction, something caving in – a predator on the hunt - he'd done all of this before, he was sure.

He was even stalling again.

He could hear little feet now, the skittering of voidlings from far away. A delicate trip-trap against rumbling explosions like something leaping off the walls. Behind him, half the tunnel crumbled.

Pain. From the shadows, spikes nailed him in the back, sinking in deep. Zac gave a little gasp, stumbling forwards. A dead end. A sound like rasping laughter reached him.

"Nowhere to run."

End of the line.

The Secret Weapon slowed in his pace, coming down to a trudge, and then a stop.

"That's okay," he panted, turning. "I'm done running."

The bug jumped for it.

The first time, he caught him – slung him back onto the ground. There was a crack, maybe the chitin chipped, but then he got right back up again. And he jumped.

From his time in the League, he'd only run into Kha'Zix a couple times. Most of them in the jungle, alone, and those were the worst. Zac knew his creed – isolate, and devour. He knew how he liked to hunt.

The claws sunk in deep and he had to breathe around them, like every breath made them bigger. The Secret Weapon flailed – lashed out in a blind stretching strike, and he thought he could hear a tear, a huff. The Voidreaver ripped out his claws just as quick, jump-kicking off of him until he was flat on the ground.

He inhaled shakily – tried to focus on the air in the sewer, anything but the pain – holding in a grunt pushed up from the very bottom of his gut. Zac struggled to his knees. His torso had two gaping slashes in them, stretching wide every time he moved. Why? Why weren't they closing?

The bug jumped again.

Sturdy feet slammed him straight into the ground and it was like deflating – quickly and forcefully, with the empty, shriveled feeling in his insides – and that time he groaned. Sharp claws raked across his back, as if probing.

"You smell terrible," Kha'Zix said, gravelly voice punctuated by insectoid clicks. And then the claws swiped – scissor-like – and he gasped, feeling something part from him entirely. "Will you taste terrible as well?"

He could hear the bug click his tongue as his arm melted into goop on his claws.

"Barely worth eating..."

The Voidreaver went for the other arm.

Zaun's sewer smelled awful, or he thought it would if he could smell. Zac tried to imagine it – like taste, but in the air – tried to reason out what the sewer ought to smell like.

Focus.

The air felt heavy. Muggy. Sticky, almost. Like it clung to you. Unwelcome, unwanted. The refuse of an entire city – what did that smell like? Come on, _come on_.

Focus.

Kha'Zix wasn't eating him – he was taking him apart. Limb by limb, bit by bit, until soon he would be nothing but a pile of goop and _dammit did that hurt_. It wasn't the quick now-you're-dead kind of assassination he was so used to from Kha'Zix – not that it ever really worked on him – but slow and surgical and _why was he still only on the first leg?_

But he could do this. He could endure, he had to and he would. And when the bug finished and he was nothing, he would rise again, and it would be fine. Everything would be fine. Just one moment. He just needed one moment to catch his breath.

If they had made it to safety – if they had trampled all over those vicious little voidlings – if they had ducked past all those monstrous voidborn – _if they had made it_... Then this would be worth everything.

The Voidreaver stopped halfway through easing off his other leg. Zac could hear him sniffing, a clicking sound like his antennae were probing the air.

"Now _that_," he whispered, "smells like something worth eating."

Kha'Zix shifted on top of him, and he smothered a grunt, feeling a little tap on the back of his head.

Then the claws came down, and he was in pieces.

This was it.

This was it. All he had to do was keep it together – one piece at a time.

Bit by bit.

The sound of the bug leaping about the sewer reached him. Whatever had caught his attention, he was looking for it.

Halfway there... He could feel himself coming together, disjointed sensations of pain melding as one.

A hissing and a spray – did Kha'Zix fire off his spikes? There was more clicking, a huff, like he was frustrated.

Almost done...

A sound like the fluttering of wings. The bug jumped close.

"I'd forgotten about that..." he hissed. It sounded terrifyingly near.

He was so, _so_ close.

The claws – he struck.

Blood.

Suddenly, Zac was himself again, eyes shut tight waiting for the final blow.

"What?" growled the Voidreaver.

A click.

"It's me!" came the sing-song reply, laughing loudly.

And then he opened fire.

When the Secret Weapon opened his eyes, he saw two things.

Kha'Zix, on the ground, utterly shredded apart by the bolts – and Twitch.

There was so much blood.

"Twitch!" He scrambled over to him, catching the rat as he started to stumble forward. "Oh god, Twitch!"

"Hi..." he gasped, eyes swiveling around to look at him.

"Why? _Why_ did you come back?" He must have been yelling, he had to be – but he could only feel a straining in his throat. His voice came out like a whisper.

He didn't have a heart, but there was something tight in his chest.

"Why... not...?" the Plague Rat answered, breathlessly. His eyelids fluttered like he was struggling to keep them open. "We're friends..."

Blood dribbled from his snout. His face was set in a grin, even so. Those claws had gone right through his stomach.

No – no. _Please_.

Zac cradled him close, breaking into a run. He heard the clattering Twitch's crossbow made as it fell from his hands, but he didn't bother to look. He knew where the manholes were – how to get out. He could make it, he had to.

_Please_.

"Hang on, buddy," he huffed. He could feel the blood starting to run. It was slipping through his hands. "Just hang on. We'll get you to – to Janna, or something, and everything'll be okay. I promise."

There! Rungs, still intact. A way out.

Twitch clung to his chest – feeble little paws – and snuggled close.

"You really do... remind me of home..." he sighed, almost contentedly. "Like...yogurt mold..."

When Zac reached the surface, he was already cold.

.

.

.


	20. Nightfall

They had parted like a sea for him.

"Why?"

He had felt the tear widening – had left the sewer in pursuit of this very man that stood before him – but that he should let him walk right up to him was... baffling.

Malzahar, with his mask and eyes aflame, betrayed nothing. Kog'Maw sat at his feet, happily lapping up sand while his fellows, lumbering monstrosities, leveled him with hungry stares. Somewhere in the distant reaches of the bay, he could hear the sounds of bloody battle.

"One last chance," said the Prophet, wagging a finger at him. "One last chance to join us. You have been my greatest obstacle for years. I can respect that power – and the Void can as well."

He trailed off the ground, circling him slowly like a hawk.

"All you have to do is say yes."

He lashed out, nether blade forming instantaneously in his hands as the Prophet lurched backwards to avoid him. There was a rumbling amongst the Voidborn – but none moved.

"You have your self-sworn duty," he answered, lunging again for the exposed torso "and so have I!"

"Think about what you stand to lose, Void Walker," remarked Malzahar, sidestepping him with ease. "The power... the knowledge..."

The Prophet hopped backwards from a force pulse. He might have been masked, but Kassadin could feel the smirk on the wretch's face. His jaw clenched tight - there was a drawing on his insides as a null sphere left his hand, a sensation of exodus as the void energy channeled without.

Malzahar could not avoid this one.

He stumbled backwards, hand clapping to his side. Strange eyes glanced at him.

"...Your daughter," he coughed.

No.

He could taunt and mock and toy with him as much as he liked – but he had _no right_ to mention _her._

A shift in time, self, space. He tackled him to the ground, one arm pinned, nether blade at his throat.

"_Do not speak of her_," he hissed, voice low and harsh by the filtration of his mask.

The Prophet only laughed loudly, deeply – infuriatingly – staring up at him with those infuriating eyes that saw nothing and everything all at once.

"If you close that tear, you may never see her again," he rasped, gaze unflinching even as he pressed the blade in enough to draw blood. "Will you lose that chance?"

"Papa."

Someone had called him that, once upon a time. A dim recollection from long ago that made his heart clench and old wounds ache. A faded, cherished memory.

The chance to see his daughter again...

To hear her laugh, and cry, and smile at him –

It had been so long. So very long.

To see his daughter again would mean everything to him – but –

"I will _not_," he whispered hoarsely, "risk Valoran... on a chance."

Malzahar gazed up at him, eyes unreadable.

"I see," he said, drawing close, until his masked lips were at his helmet's ear. Blood trickled down his neck. "That's a shame."

The sound of pressure being released.

The Prophet shoved him off roughly, and he stumbled backwards, hands reaching for the gas canisters at his back.

"You - !" he breathed out shakily.

No.

The bitterness on his tongue was dissipating – and suddenly, he felt light.

Malzahar sheathed his blade, watching as he attempted, trembling, to stay on his feet.

"I know your weakness – what the Void has done to you. It has told me everything, and it could have told you. But you have chosen your fate, and so it shall be."

"You knew my answer, always," he spat back, between deep breaths. Clean air felt foreign, and thin. "A show... a slow death... for your minions..."

The Prophet only chuckled, crossing his arms.

"They are not my minions... No more than I am their leader. Merely a catalyst... and a mouthpiece."

"For who?" Kassadin gasped. He was starting to lose feeling in his fingertips – starting to feel the deadening of his feet. It had begun.

He held his hands before him, watching as the very flesh seemed to slacken and tear. Numbness at his fingertips, and then burning, a slow-roasting pain crawling up his skin. A grunt died in his throat, breathing turned shallow. If he could just - if he could just slow it down...!

The Riftwalker fell to his knees.

He could see Malzahar before him, a murky figure on the red horizon, watching with bright eyes. They spoke of an eternity -

- but not his.

.

.

.

"Come on… Come on…!"

He could feel her breath on his ears - the desperation it carried on hot air. One arm slung over the Battle Mistress's shoulder, Nasus trudged heavily along, barely keeping hold of his halberd. His side ached terribly. It seared, in a maddening sort of way that made him want to tear it open himself.

"Almost there," she whispered urgently, still pulling him along. "Just hang on a little longer."

Behind him, the Curator could hear his brother, following along. Renekton carried Katarina, still comatose after battling Thresh; after his own encounter and wounding by the Chain Warden, it was as if his rage had been gutted. He had trailed after them like a silent beast, the Serpent's Embrace traveling in his wake.

Nasus tried to focus on keeping his breathing even, tried to concentrate on the pain. His agony meant he was still alive, would continue to be - in the aftermath of Xerath's arcane barrage, he had lost all feeling in his limbs. For the moment he had fallen, the librarian had feared the worst.

In spite of his efforts, it was difficult. The air was stale, musty; it settled on his tongue until his mouth felt dry, and his vision oscillated between light and dark. Spots roamed across it like ink splotches blooming on parchment. Unwittingly he had concentrated on the Battle Mistress's smell to tether him to reality - the earthy quality to it that smelled like sweat and sand and sun. Was that the smell of Sivir, or Shurima? He wasn't sure. Consciousness took focus to maintain.

In the distance, Nasus thought he saw moonlight.

He must have faded out somewhere in between, because in the next second of his cognizance, he could taste the desert in twilight. Its night air was cool, brisk - most of all fresh, in spite of its lingering tang of dirt and dust. He took a shuddering breath, trying to internalize it. Within him, the burning was beginning to fade.

Faintly, he could hear the sounds of collapse; a body hitting the ground.

"Nasus!"

When he felt coarse sand he realized - it was him.

"You need to get up," the Battle Mistress said. He could feel her shaking his arm. "Nasus!"

"One moment," he answered, words carried on a heavy breath. Vaguely he could feel her persistent tug - the Curator rolled over with difficulty, until he was lying on his back.

"We have to keep moving, we have to get you to a medic," she insisted. He could see her hovering over him. Her expression was strange. "Nasus, _please_."

Past her was the Shuriman sky, cloudless. The moon shone brightly like a luminescent pearl - beautiful. The desert breeze, the hot smell of the sand dunes...

For the first time in a long, long time, Nasus felt he had come home.

Something stirred within - a familiar memory from long ago. Things that he had loved and forgotten all the same.

"_Does it not wear on you, reading the hearts and minds of mortals day in and out?"_

"_Hah! You needn't worry about me. The evils of men are nothing. What's important is that you are safe."_

"_It is the library we must protect. I am not comparable to the knowledge of the world."_

"_You are my brother. Nothing is comparable to you."_

He was so tired.

"Hey!" She shook him again. "Siphon a little off of me, siphon all of it, I don't care, just don't black out on me!"

"No..." He inhaled deeply, taking in the air of Shurima. "You must… recover…"

"You're _not_ doing this to me..!"

From where he lay, he had a clear view of the stars, of the great open world beyond - and Sivir. He reached out, grasped her trembling hand, and she threaded her fingers tightly through his.

One last touch, one last look - of the sky and the person he had grown so fond of.

"Nasus, don't," she whispered, voice wavering.

"Enough," he murmured. "Please."

Something dribbled on his cheek - on the edges of his consciousness he wondered vaguely if it was beginning to rain.

"Let me sleep."

The Curator of the Sands closed his eyes and dreamed.

.

.

.

_Destruction._

_Where was Cho'Gath? The building was coming down on them. Glass, rubble everywhere. Amidst the rumbling, she thought she heard a shock blast in the distance. Was Jayce distracting him?_

_A hard shove._

_He was pinned beneath the column - waist-down crushed. It was made of stone._

"_Viktor!" she cried, flying to him. He beckoned for her to come close, tearing off his __mask__._

She stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping on her own feet. Thundering up above, ceiling tiles coming down - thank god, _thank god_ he had designed the room sturdy.

"_Listen very carefully," he gasped, and he yanked her to him, so that his lips were to her one working ear. "Take this."_

_He pressed the crystal into her hand._

There. Caitlyn saw the core and dashed straight for it, ripping the panel off its hinges.

Where? Where had it connected?

"_Wire it to the core... Power up the system," he hissed, words coming out in a rush._

She dove in, pulling at the tangled mess of cords. It should have had a slot, or some kind of holder. _Where was it?_

The sheriff jammed the arcane crystal into place, snatching her hand hand back as the Respawn Room whirred to life. There was a crackling amongst the cables and she prayed that did the trick.

Caitlyn staggered to the main console, watching as the screen lit up. _Initializing_, it said. The sheriff braced herself against the machine, breathing heavily. Faster, faster - she needed it operational _now_.

The login showed up.

"_Select 'Administrator.' The password is..."_

It let her in, and immediately she pulled up the command console, fingers flying across the keyboard in a flurry. There was another rumble - one of the ceiling lights shattered, and she cursed, backspacing and entering her words again.

"_Pull up - the console. Search 'Void.' "_

A list came up - letters and designations that meant nothing to her at first glance. She scrolled down, scanning them rapidly through blurring vision. Her head was pounding, her heart was in her ears. Where was it?

"_Find C798A... select it. Another prompt will show. The command is-"_

There! The sheriff double-clicked, waiting for the menu to appear. The window pulled up, and she stumbled on the keys, re-typing it twice. Her knees felt weak - her ear pulsated painfully.

A second's delay for the characters to catch up. On the far side, the ceiling caved in.

"_-terminate."_

Caitlyn pressed ENTER.

.

.

.


	21. Daybreak

He was in his element.

It was a loud and visceral element, beautiful and bleak. It filled his ears, his nose, his mouth with its sounds and sensations and flooded him as he struggled to move to the beat of its drum. It was battle, exhilarating and gut-wrenching and soul-sucking all at once. He gritted his teeth against the tang of blood, swung his sword against the weight of exhaustion.

Amidst death, Garen was _alive_.

The monstrosity reared back on its eight legs, roaring as he tore his blade from its side. Its blood, thick and black and sticky splattered to the sand and he dug his heels into the ground, bracing himself for its retaliation. It thrashed – he only just caught its head with the flat of his blade as it tried to ram him full-force.

The Might of Demacia twisted around it, bringing his sword with him in a fatal roll. Its head fell as heavily to the ground as his blade.

Around him he could hear the screaming, the yelling. Feral screeches and deafening roars, the death-gurgles of monsters and men alike mingling on the beach like some kind of gruesome symphony. He squinted his eyes in the darkness – tried to make out something more than dim silhouettes by moonlight – but nothing. A bright flash of light, a colorful beam blazing out into the night. Lux.

The smell of burning flesh.

A growl behind him – the dribbling of noxious spit into the sand. He turned around, blade held ready.

Was there an end?

.

.

.

"Look," he laughed, gesturing with arms wide at the carnage. "Look at what I have wrought."

"Death," gasped the Voidwalker, "death and destruction and despair."

At last, at last – here it was.

The day of reckoning. The marriage.

They had been so wrong, so blind to presume that their universe could be separated into planes of existence, neat little layers that occasionally overlapped. No – no, that was not the order of the universe, not the rite of nature. Nature was in chaos, it was in death and destruction. Valoran would be consumed, and out of nothing, they would be reborn.

He could hear it again on the sea-breeze – the siren song of the Void calling out to him. She had come to Valoran to be wed – her entourage had arrived in advance to celebrate – and the lives she took were to be her bride price in this total union of worlds. No more planes, no more tears, only synthesis, fusion. Everything, everyone of all worlds and the next.

No life, no death, no summoners and no summoned. Only the reality of existence.

Narrowly, Malzahar sidestepped another slash at the end of a nether blade. The Voidwalker grunted as he stumbled heavily to the ground, legs going out beneath him.

A corpse in the making, a living man already dead. The absolute manifestation of all that was, and would be. Envious, so envious. How he wished to embody the Void much the same.

Kassadin would never know, never understand his own perfection – the gift that had been bestowed upon him on that moonless, Icathian night.

"You're a fool, Prophet!" he yelled, struggling to rise again. "You've tampered with forces you cannot comprehend... disrupted a balance you've no idea the significance of!"

Who was the fool?

"I know everything," he rasped in reply, rising from the sand. "I have seen eternity. The Void has shown it to me – and it is _wondrous_."

There it was again – the melodious call rising from the depths of the sinking sea. Close, so close. She was near the surface, fast approaching. He stopped, turned to look out over the ebon waves.

_Look at me_, it sang to him. _Embrace me, for I have come_.

His arms held out, hands splayed wide in welcome; he felt the beat of anticipation, the strength his heart's palpitations both empty in yearning, full in joy. Here, here – the Void, it had come.

A large figure, emerging from the water.

Pain.

A connection reformed, a bridge burnt rebuilt. Chains linking together once more.

No. _Not again._

Malzahar sucked in a sharp breath – clutched his chest as he felt it, the resurgence. The bond that should not have been.

In his hand, there was blood.

"It did not show you _this_."

A dark blade, rising from his chest. The Voidwalker, pressed close to his back – a cold hand, grasping, crushing his neck. Malzahar gasped – gurgled – and reached out to the sea, to his salvation –

To his siren song.

"It ends... with you, Prophet," wheezed the Voidwalker, shoving him bodily to the ground.

The copper of blood, the salt of the ocean on his tongue. He struggled upwards, lifting his head out of receding tides in staggering motions such that he could hear the creaking, the straining of his own neck. He could see it coming, the figure, through darkening vision.

The years were leaving, past and present and future, as the color filtered from his eyes. Nothing but black and white, emptiness without depth. Eternity had left his sight.

And still it sung to him, that haunting voice carried over the waves.

"Liar," he hissed, blood bubbling at his lips. "Liar!"

It had promised him everything.

Death by the Voidwalker, Void incarnate – a betrayal in an end, or a fulfillment in a beginning? Was this his rebirth or his final passing?

Malzahar took a shuddering breath, head collapsing into the sand. The tide would carry his blood away, and nothing else.

It had promised – but still, he had nothing.

.

.

.

The Prophet was dead – dead by his hands.

Kassadin crumbled to his knees, blade going out. His fingers would not move, his legs would not respond. He could feel the chill creeping up his body, the gradual shut-down of his organs. Flesh, black and rotting – already, he had begun to decay.

Ah... To die now... It had not been a good life, but -

He had fulfilled his duty, if nothing else.

.

.

.

Her staff – gone, her energy – gone, her will – _not broken_.

But was that enough?

It clutched her close to itself – a strange, four-armed embrace of macabre intimacy as it opened its mouth wide. She could see the teeth, the residual blood – smell the death on its breath and feel its warmth. Lux tried in vain, to thrash, to struggle, to move. She had nothing left.

The mage shut her eyes tight.

It bit down.

A crack, as if meeting metal. The monster screeched and tossed her aside, and she landed like a ragdoll in the sand, breathing dirt. There was a sound like a blade meeting chitin and flesh.

Lux coughed, rising shakily as she tried to see what had happened. A tall figure stood before her, stance protective.

"Are you all right?" came the deep, collected voice.

"Shen!"

Flashes of lightning in the distance. The sharp cry of the twirling of blades.

The Kinkou had arrived.

.

.

.

His wailing was high and loud.

An awful sound.

If Shen had had the moment, he might have stopped to watch – to observe the mourning. He might have seen Kog'Maw, floundering piteously at the shoreline, scouring for remnants of the Prophet. He might have seen the way he flailed and pawed at the bloody sand, seen the way he seemed, so desperately, not to understand that the corpse had dissipated, consumed by the dark energies that had sustained it for so long.

But he did not, and so the Eye of Twilight could hear only his terrible howl.

He took stock of the battlefield quickly, helping the youngest Crownguard to her feet as he handed her her staff. Kennen to the east, dashing through the chaos, Akali to the west, in the midst of her bloody dance – where was he needed?

There.

He whirled around, impaling one Voidborn behind Lux as another took up their side. She gasped and stumbled forwards, staff flying up protectively. Feinting left drew a lunge – he seized her by the arm and pulled her around past him, vorpal blade following their arc until it was buried in the beast's head. The girl must be exhausted, to be this vulnerable.

"There's no end to them!" she panted, adjusting her footing until she was standing on her own again. "I don't know how long we can hold."

"Then you must retreat," he replied, yanking the bloody blade from its skull. There was a glint in the distance, at the foot of the mountain, bright even by the thin light of the moon. "Reinforcements are yet to come."

"I can't," she said, drawing in deep breaths. Her head snapped to the side and she flung out lucent singularity, detonating in a bright flash. Pained screeches rose from surrounding shadows. "Case... in point, we need... all the manpower we can get... to hold this."

"Then at least move to a safer position than in the fray."

Arguing her determination was a waste of time, he knew by experience. Shen beckoned for her to follow, stepping nimbly through the carnage. Another Voidborn, leaping – and then dead by the slice of his blade – one springing from the left, caught in a light binding and slain.

These creatures were not comparable to those that had entered the League, no, not by a long shot. But they were many, and _they _were few, and that might be enough to overwhelm them if something didn't happen, quickly. The youngest Crownguard was fast running out of energy, he could tell, and it was too dark for him to see much else of the others.

A sound like thunder.

The earth shook – there was a great cracking, as if the very ground had split – and the ninja glanced quickly over his shoulder. A familiar impact, the grand skyfall of the Artisan of War, leaping from above to join in battle. Another rumble – a mimicry of the Terror of the Void, and yet, not hostile. The Battlecast Prime. He couldn't quite make out their forms, not with only the brief flashes of light spared by weapon and magic alike, but he knew it. They had arrived.

"Here!"

That glint again, piercing the darkness – it was the momentary glow of her shield.

The Radiant Dawn.

.

.

.

She could feel it. Their suffering.

It was as if the entire ocean were crying out to her – the sound of rushing, falling water in the distance like a shuddering groan of pain. The Void was consuming their world, their seas, _her people_, she could feel it in her very scales.

"Do you have it?" asked the Eye of Twilight, as they converged. Lux bent over, hands on her knees, panting.

"Yes," Nami answered quickly, grip tightening on her staff.

"Let us hope it is worth something," he said, voice grim. Shen drew one sword – impaling it into something behind him in one swift stroke. "Go."

Leona rushed past, bashing aside a Voidborn with her shield as she joined Pantheon in the melee. The Tidecaller could only trail behind.

The cries of the dying grew louder with every step.

.

.

.

Her sword sunk deep into one, and she could barely pull it back out fast enough to catch the lunge of another. She grunted beneath the strain, pushing it back with her shield. It staggered – a spear nailed it into the sand.

She nodded at Pantheon over her shoulder, blowing the hair out of her eyes as her Zenith Blade caught another. A flash step – behind it now. The Radiant Dawn cuffed it over the head with the pommel of her sword.

Somewhere in the distance, past the sounds of rushing blood and her beating heart, she could hear the deafening roar and the earth-trembling explosions of the Machine Herald's creation. It was in the air – blood and battle, death and destruction. They needed to reach the sea.

"Careful!"

Pantheon sprang in front of her, smashing away the beast that had run up in the meanwhile. A quick strike at its heart. Bright eyes in the darkness.

"You too!" she replied, whirling around in a sweeping kick until the next one was on the ground. Its head made a loud crack beneath her heel, and she grimaced, pulling her shield up in front of her.

They were surrounded.

.

.

.

Too many, too late.

Their plan had been to plunge the moon stone into the deep – hope desperately that whatever properties had made it so vital to her people were not just preventatives – but there was no way they could cut a swath through to the ocean. Not with this many.

Nami urged the tides to carry her faster and faster, to where Leona and Pantheon had been mobbed. So close to the sea, she could feel the surge of energy rush to her, as much as it was suffering, and she tried to internalize it – that pain – and make it something more.

"Oceans spill forth!"

It pushed her forward, the great wave she had drawn from the water she carried with her, and it spilled out over the bay, throwing up the Voidborn and sending the rest stumbling. The ebb and flow of the water called to her – springing from friend to foe as she guided it across the battlefield.

And still, they came.

"Tidecaller!" called Leona, as she neared.

"There's no end," muttered the Artisan of War, readying his shield and spear. He shook the water from his helmet. "At this rate, we'll never make it."

"All cannot be lost," insisted the Radiant Dawn, taking a defensive stance at his side.

What had it all been for?

Diana's death, abandoning Kassadin, obtaining the moonstone – what had it all been for? To end things like this, swarmed by the monstrous Voidborn after everything they had done?

The moonstone. _The_ _moonstone_.

With clumsy hands she screwed the bottom off her staff, catching the sphere as it rolled out. Its pearlescent glow lit up the darkness, and it was then that she realized -

Why had the moonstone been a deterrent?

.

.

.

The chosen of the sun grunted beneath the full force of a heavy blow, heels digging into the sand to maintain her stance. The Voidborn hissed, diving over the top of her shield as it tried to get in a snap at her bare face. Its teeth clicked loudly drawing back – its breath the briefest of puffs of hot air over her skin.

"Leona!" cried the Tidecaller.

She had only a second to look before it lunged again, and she pulled her shield up quickly, catching it on the chin. It screeched loudly as she shook it off.

"We need a solar flare!"

"What?" she huffed, sidestepping it as it hurtled towards her. "But dawn is yet to arrive!"

"Just try!"

Did the child know what she was asking for? To call upon a sun beam in the midst of night?

"There can be no solar flares without the sun!" called back the Radiant Dawn, teeth clenched as she floored the beast with her shield of daybreak.

"Please!" cried Nami - something cracking in her voice.

"I can't!" she gritted out, squaring her shoulders for another charge.

"_Trust me_!"

There was something bright in the sky.

She glanced up quickly. The moonstone – Nami had thrown it into the air – high, high above the battlefield. In her periphery, the Voidborn was rearing up for another lunge, torn chitin, bloody black, and gnashing teeth. It would go for the throat.

Leona tightened her grip on her Zenith Blade, and then –

She pointed it skywards, and prayed.

.

.

.

There was a loud, horrendous cry.

Brilliant light.

.

.

.

She was blinded.

This much, Nami knew as she collapsed into the sand. Her energy was leaving her, evaporating like dissipating water. Her heart hurt terribly, her chest burned with a frothing kind of feverish relief. This was the end.

The light was dazzling, radiant and golden and warm – so, _so warm_ – and she had seen something wonderful, so very wonderful, in the briefest of seconds before the flash. On the inside, it made her want to cry.

The flare had come from the moon.

.

.

.

In the midst of night, day broke over the battlefield.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Late update for reasons. Apologies, and a belated happy holidays!


	22. Rebirth

Noxian air was bitter.

It might have been the smell of antiseptics floating around, or the dryness in her mouth, but the moment she took a breath, Sivir knew where she was.

It was pitch black – no light – and for one moment, she wondered what had happened, fighting through the vertigo as she pulled herself into a sitting position. Her back cracked, spine popping, and the Battle Mistress cat-stretched briefly, holding a hum in her throat.

Then she remembered.

It had disappeared.

The mercenary burst out of the cot, throwing off the sheets as she stumbled on cold, tiled floor. Fumbling for something to grab onto – anything – she caught hold of a handful of curtain, yanking it aside. There was a bright moon in the sky.

It had disappeared.

She didn't know where her armor was, where her weapons had gone, who had taken her and where exactly, but that didn't matter. With clumsy, aching hands, she scrabbled at the window, chipping at its edge with her nails until she could ease it open. Unlike Shurima, the night air was warm.

His body had disappeared.

The Battle Mistress heaved herself painfully up onto the sill, scrambling over the other side until her bare feet met grass. She was in a courtyard, of some kind – residential, it looked like. A private clinic? There were lights further away, drifting out of huge windows. Someone was up. Quickly, the mercenary crouched low, pressing herself flush against stone walls in an attempt to stay shadowed.

Nasus's body had disappeared.

It could only mean one thing. Wherever she was, she needed to leave. Never mind her stuff – she could look for it later. She had to get to the Institute, to the Fields of Justice.

Sivir peered around a corner, eyes squinted. There wasn't much she could see, in the darkness, but it looked clear enough. She crept forward.

"Don't move."

.

.

.

Home.

For some reason, she thought she'd never see it again. There was a kind of farawayness in the concept – an overwhelming nostalgia – that hung over her, and despite herself, she felt her throat seize up a little.

There was something inside of her that wanted to cry.

Katarina swallowed, pulling her knees up to her chest, burying her nose in familiar blankets. It was a comforting smell, and it shook her like few things had before.

Where had she been the last few days? What had she been doing?

It was hard to recall, but the Sinister Blade felt as if she had spent a long, long while empty. Dead. She wasn't one for soul-searching, Noxus had no time for sentimentalism, but it was strange, how hollow she felt.

She glanced around the vacant room – at the IV, stuck into her arm, the anemic light of morning slipping through her curtains. There was a shadow by her bedside, and then she knew.

"You should have told me," he said – and there was no tenderness in his tone, but a bitter, sharp edge.

"… I know," replied Katarina, after a long while. She closed her eyes, hugged her knees close.

"Do you have any idea how long I searched? How many people I had to contact in order to find you?" he asked lowly. "I have a lot of loose ends to tie up now, because of you two."

"We couldn't have been gone longer than a week," she murmured. The exchange was familiar. Soothing. It was tempting to go back to sleep.

"A week and a half," he corrected irritably, and she didn't have to look to know his arms were crossed.

Katarina didn't say anything in reply, and he didn't continue, until another lengthy moment had passed in silence. Then she heard a sigh - tired, and heavy sounding, as if it came from deep within his chest.

"You should have told me," Talon muttered. "How long were you going to try and hide it?"

"Hide what?"

"That she was getting worse."

She frowned. "We just didn't…"

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he snapped, interrupting her. It was a calm sort of snap, a premeditated fury. Like calculated cruelty, the composure did nothing to take the edge off of it.

She looked up, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes searching the shadows for his. There was a rustle of clothing - and finally, he stepped into the light. Talon drew up a chair behind him, settling by her bedside and pulling off his hood. Even hunched over, she could see the dark rings around his eyes.

"We just didn't want you to worry," Katarina told him quietly. "We thought we could fix it."

He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The last time I saw General Du Couteau, he told me to look after you two."

"Well it's been a long time since we saw Dad," she replied, a little regret sticking to the back of her throat. "You don't have to hang around anymore. You know that."

"And yet I'm still here," he observed duly, glancing up at her.

"You're still here," she agreed, and a small, wry smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

He said nothing to that, only shaking his head in a way that made Katarina want to laugh. It was so familiar - so terribly familiar. The only thing missing was…

"Where's Cass?" The Noxian assassin looked around. "How is she?"

A knock at the door. Possibly one of the servants.

"Enter," Talon ordered.

"Nice place you got here," came the low, dry voice. There was a slithering.

"Sivir," she greeted, a little warily.

Truth be told, Katarina didn't remember much after the whole fiasco with Thresh - she remembered vaguely something about lanterns, a dark, wide chamber, and the sudden appearance of Xerath. The Battle Mistress must have been picked up with them - but then, where was the Curator, or the Butcher?

Cassiopeia, still a snake, coiled around the foot of Talon's chair, propping her serpentine head onto his lap. It was with faint wonder that the Sinister Blade observed him as he laid a hand on her head.

"Gets more affectionate the colder her blood is, I see," remarked Sivir, amused. Talon shot her a deadpan look. "Thanks for the patch up, by the way." She patted her bandages.

"Why are you here?" she asked bluntly.

The mercenary shifted her weight from one foot to the other, shaking out the newspaper she had in her hand. Katarina hadn't even noticed it.

"It's back up," she replied, sobering.

It?

"You can't mean…?" started Katarina.

Sivir nodded. "They wrung a statement out of the Herald about it. He's being held in Demacia right now."

"Then the Institute of War is running again?"

"Still down." The Battle Mistress threw the paper onto her lap. "Read the article yourself if you want."

"Why is this significant to you?" asked Talon.

"There's somewhere I need to be. Something I need to do," she answered, shooting him a vexed look. "Something I would've done already if you hadn't stopped me from leaving earlier."

"A half-dressed, disorientated mercenary would not make it far on Noxian streets at night," he pointed out flatly.

"Well, now I'm dressed, completely lucid, and I need passage out of Noxus," she returned easily.

Talon glanced at Katarina from the corner of his eye, and she shook her head.

"Not yet," he answered shortly.

Sivir scowled. "What do you want?"

"What you found out from Xerath. What he said about Cassiopeia. Tell me," she said. "Then we'll talk about getting you out of here."

The Battle Mistress crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto her back foot. Gaze moving from her, to Talon, then to Cassiopeia, she seemed to make a choice.

"All right."

.

.

.

The sun was bright.

He trudged along slowly, feet making sloppy imprints in the dirt. There was nothing on the horizon but the sand and the sky, and he squinted his eyes as he faced out into its glaring visage. Emptiness – only the earth on fire. He licked at sharp teeth with a dry tongue, and moved sluggishly onwards.

Where was he going? Where had he been?

He didn't know.

He only kept moving forward. Like a moth driven relentlessly towards light, he kept on towards the distant horizon. There was no purpose to his steps, no direction to his actions, yet there remained something within telling him not to stop – _never to stop_. He didn't know what it was.

He had tried to look inside – and found nothing.

.

.

.

It had been a long time.

She'd almost forgotten what it had looked like at high noon – how the river had swelled up with a gurgling shine, and the jungle had rustled in the midday wind. It had been a while since she had taken cool, wet breaths instead of breathing the warm, chapped air of the Shuriman day.

Even if the grass had been watered with blood, she had kind of missed the Summoner's Rift.

Sivir slogged through the knee-deep water, shaking out her boots as she finally crossed over into red jungle. The last cicadas of summer were clicking all around her, and she stopped briefly, looking skywards.

He hadn't been on the blue fountain. That left two possibilities: he had wandered off, or he had been dropped on red side.

Either way, she needed to find him.

.

.

.

"You read this, right?"

Her words came out in a rush, carried by a shaky exhale. Katarina set the newspaper down, collapsing back into a chair. The empty dining room felt too wide, too large right about then.

"Should you be walking around?" He didn't look up from sharpening his blades.

"Just answer me."

"Yes."

The soul-chaining, the rebirth, the stagnation...

The Sinister Blade cradled her bandaged arm, traced where the needle had been set in a moment of shuddering re-composure. She needed to collect herself.

The truth behind the system gave her terrible, terrible thoughts.

"Sivir said that the curse," she began, softly, hesitantly – afraid of what ground she might tread with this train of thought, "would change Cass's soul."

Talon didn't reply to her for a long moment, and she thought, for a second, he hadn't heard her.

"You're afraid her link will be severed," he concluded, examining the edge of a dagger.

"She's still part Cass right now, but... for how long? How long until it goes all the way and she's just a snake?"

He stopped in his ministrations – glanced up at her with razor-sharp eyes. "You're not suggesting..."

Katarina grimaced, looking away from his incisive gaze. "Before it's too late."

"Do you understand the kind of risk you'll be taking?" he asked coolly – and that slight shift in his inflection told her everything she needed to know about his thoughts on the matter. He was putting up a front again, drawing up the distance. "If the machine is nonfunctional, she will die. If it doesn't return her to her previous self as I'm assuming you theorized, then she will have suffered the agony of death for nothing."

Talon set the dagger down, passing a hand over the collection. He seemed to hover over one, and then stop, sitting up straight to look at her.

"Is that worth it?" he pressed, and that hard edge crept into his tone again.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "But what's going to happen to her regardless can't be much better."

"And you know this for a fact?"

"I know this is what she'd want," answered Katarina, adding a little wistfully, "better to die while she's still beautiful than waste away alone, she'd always say."

A lull passed over them, and she guessed he was taking the time to think over her words.

Truth be told, the thought of it terrified her. What-ifs raced across her mind at a breakneck pace, and she swallowed thickly, clutching at her bandaged arm. If this was what it took to save her, could she kill her own sister when it came down to it? To leave her at the mercy of the curse, or to kill her in an attempt to cure her – which was worse?

"I don't know how long before her soul turns," she murmured, more to herself, and she forced down the nausea rising in her stomach. Another long moment passed.

"Let me do it," he said at last, turning away from his weapons, and there was a heaviness about his words that shook her. Talon took up one knife – a long blade, as if for slitting throats – and she leapt out of her chair, snatching it from his hands.

"No!" She held it close to her with stiff fingers, wide gaze meeting his surprised eyes. Katarina took deep breaths. "No."

She turned it over in her hands – examined the keen edge.

"I'll do it."

.

.

.

Maybe he was shriveling up.

He stumbled forward, eyes turning unblinkingly towards the sun. Beneath its blazing gaze, he felt very small, very insignificant – and withered all the same. His head was pounding – his vision pulsed. His throat was parched. When he tried to swallow, the walls stuck together and it wouldn't go down all the way.

A collapse.

The sand was hot. Not warm, but searing. It seeped into cracked scales and chafed him with its coarseness. Half of him wanted to curl up, to sleep – but the other half wanted him to move, to flail weakly for something, anything to grab onto and pull himself back to his aching feet.

There was nothing – but his trembling hand caught onto something soft.

Cloth, of some kind. Fine threads that were smooth to touch. It felt scorching against his fingertips, and he raked it in, pulled it close. It bunched up against him and he pressed it into his stinging nose, hugged it flush to him as he curled around the bundle. It smelled like sun-baked perfume, familiar and far away.

Dry eyes blinked. Once, twice, then closed.

The half that wanted to sleep won out.

.

.

.

Inwardly, Sivir wished she had thought this through a little more.

Like many things she had forgotten about it, she'd forgotten just how big the Rift was. How exactly she was going to find Nasus quickly, she wasn't sure. There was a lot of forest to cover, and she didn't have the usual wire-up of a match to see the other lanes. Whether he was in the jungle, or on one of the main pathways, she wasn't certain. He might have just been camping in red base.

With the Institute still a mess, the turrets were shut down, so she wouldn't have any trouble just walking in if he was. The problem, she thought to herself, looking up at the looming tree tops, was that she had no damn idea where he was.

What if she was too late, and he'd left? With the Institute not operating, she had no way to contact. him, and he, her, and there was no way in hell she'd be able to scour the entirety of the Shurima for him. Maybe she should have left the matter alone – whether he was alive or dead didn't affect her _that_ much – but for some reason, the Battle Mistress found she couldn't.

She just had to be certain he was out there.

Sivir hopped over a felled tree, scanning for tracks or waste, or something to let her know that someone had passed by. It was her luck of course that there was nothing, but she would be the first to admit that she wasn't the greatest at tracking anything outside the desert. The canopy was too thick for her to do the usual glance around for smoke, the horizon too covered up by foliage to look for figures in the distance.

The mercenary trudged along, keeping her senses open. It was in times like these that she wished she'd taken the time to listen to Rengar's idle chat, when a match got dragged out and they'd had moments to spare. He loved to talk about his methodology. Being freelancers, they often got lumped into the same matches. She'd stood beside and against him enough times to know how skilled a hunter the Pridestalker was.

Wait.

The Battle Mistress stopped in her tracks, surveying her surroundings carefully. She was relatively certain she had heard some kind of crack – like striking wood.

Someone was nearby.

.

.

.

She was looking at her.

"Hey, Cass..." she greeted softly, shutting the door behind her. The snake flicked her tongue, letting out an almost curious-sounding hiss. "How are you holding up?"

Her sister coiled herself up slowly, taking her time about it until Katarina found herself almost hypnotized by the way the pattern on her scales folded. Her tail flicked at the carpet she had coiled up on, as if in complaint, and the Sinister Blade had to smile to herself.

"Miss your bed, huh?"

Cassiopeia tilted her head at her, watching with unblinking eyes. The Noxian assassin strode into the room, settling cross-legged beside her. Her sister plopped her head unceremoniously into her lap, and Katarina brushed at the scales, almost absentmindedly.

It felt like there was a ball of lead sitting in her gut. As if her stomach had become a pool of dread.

Just one quick strike. Right at the base of the neck.

Her fingers felt cold, and wooden – as if they didn't really belong to her. Even as she felt the smoothness of reptilian scales, the coarse leather binding of the knife's handle, she couldn't quite register that those sensations were coming to her, that she was sitting here, with a dagger gripped tight behind her back.

Sever the spinal cord – she won't feel a thing. Quick, clean. Right at the neck.

It seemed to her that her heart was beating very hard – unnaturally hard in a way that made it seem as if it were about to burst out of her chest. It wasn't fast, thumping loudly and rushing blood into her ears, but it was strong, and painful.

She'll go fast, easy. Might be some thrashing, but it'll be after the feeling has gone. Instinctive.

"Listen," she began, and her voice strangled itself coming out of her throat, as if it didn't want to be heard. "I'm about to do something that..."

It was hard to find the words, and the way her throat was jamming up turned them into a strained croak. Cassiopeia didn't move, or make any kind of noise and she wondered, briefly, if she had fallen asleep.

"I'm about to do something that you won't like," she managed to say. "But... it's for your own good, so please..."

She raised the dagger high, and sunk it deep.

Cassiopeia's head snapped upwards and she could feel the rest of her body straightening out. She jerked sharply – left, right – tail beating wildly against the floor. Katarina kept her grip firm, wrapped her other arm around her head and pulled it close to her, curling around it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered – and her voice was straining so much, she might as well have been yelling.

Her sister's head bucked upwards into her chin and her jaw snapped shut loudly, almost taking her tongue off. But still she held her close.

"I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry," she repeated, eyes screwed shut as she felt the thrashing begin to die down. "Cass..."

Cassiopeia went limp in her arms, head falling forward such that the knife – still held in her vise-like grip – pulled out a little bit with a sickening, slick sort of noise. Oh god. Oh, god – what if it didn't work? What if her soul changed beyond the link, or they shut the machine down? What if she didn't change back?

What if she just killed her younger sister for nothing?

Katarina swallowed a sob, breathing harshly through her nose as she hugged Cassiopeia's serpentine head close. It felt heavy – so heavy – and cold like stone. She had the strangest feeling of something crumbling in her arms.

And suddenly, she was holding nothing but air.

.

.

.

Maybe this was the afterlife. He couldn't be sure.

Life and death were strange things, and he'd never experienced the one – only the other before he moved into the limbo between. What lied beyond death, he had no idea. He only hoped that it was a phase – a transient existence before he was thrown back into the cycle.

Nasus was starting to get tired of eternities.

He sat up slowly, listening to the bones in his back crack, to the rushing, flooding noise in his ears as the blood re-oriented itself to gravity. The day was bright, and he had to blink several times before he could fully open his eyes. It was a familiar sight.

Truth be told, one he had hoped never to see again.

The red side base looked strange without the glow of its nexus to cast a crimson sheen to the stonework. Glancing down, the runes that encircled the fountain were also dark. Everything was powered down.

Carefully, the Curator of the Sands got to his feet, taking up his halberd in one hand. Why was he on the Rift? The last thing he recalled, on the very edges of his foggy memory, was a wide night sky, and an incredible weariness. He was relatively certain he had died.

Nasus twisted his torso this way, then that. There was no stinging in his side, no ache – not even mild soreness. He felt perfect, perhaps a tad stiff from however long he'd been lying on the fountain, but in top form otherwise. Had the system come back online?

He descended from the fountain, legs stumbling in an awkward, rigid gait from a long time without use. The base was completely empty; there was no shopkeeper, no steady flood of minions, no indication of other champions about. Nasus took a deep breath, and tried to see if he could taste death on the air – there was nothing but the smell of the forest.

Slowly making his way out of the base from mid lane, he mulled over two possibilities: that the system had come back online, and by some stroke of providence, he had been saved, or that the system's link had created this afterlife, bound to the Summoner's Rift even after death. Briefly, the Curator had to wonder if he was, perhaps, a ghost.

He struck a nearby tree with the butt of his halberd as he passed – watched with some measure of trepidation and relief as the bark splintered loudly. Not a ghost then, if he could still influence the physical world so. Rather, a revenant.

Assuming, of course, that this was indeed not his great beyond.

It would be a desolate afterlife. Wandering alone with no sense of purpose, no sense of time – none of the anticipation that came with foreseeing an end. Would it be forever, or a day? He didn't know what effect the system had on the sacred cycle of life and death. Would he ever leave this forest of the damned, consecrated by endless blood? Or would he be trapped, eternally roaming the empty jungle with no ally or enemy in sight?

He didn't know, wasn't sure – and that was a frightening thing.

Nasus paused in his steady march, peered up into the clear, luminous sky. He could hear the clicking of insects, the distant howling of wolves, and the sound of wind threading through leaves. No, this could not be the afterlife. It was too real, too physical – not some fading, distant dream that would dull his eyes and ears in its perpetuity.

There was a rustling to his side. Footsteps fast approaching. The Curator of the Sands held his halberd tight, whirled around to meet it.

A familiar face, bursting from the thicket.

And he prayed with all his might to his bygone gods that this was indeed not the afterlife.

"I found you," she murmured, a little breathlessly, eyes wide as if she were shocked by the sight of him.

Something about it struck him, as he slowly shifted his stance back to one of ease – the Battle Mistress converging upon him out of nowhere, her face written with both awe and disbelief, and his all too fearful musings up until that point. He smiled at her.

"It is strange. I am certain I was with you only just the other day," he said wonderingly, "but it feels like such a long, long time ago."

Sivir stared for a moment, as if at a loss for exactly what to say. He could see the faintest tremor in her hands – the shakiness to her posture. She strode up to him, firm, determined steps, and for a moment, he feared she might strike him.

He was not certain what to do with a hug.

"You idiot," she ground out. The librarian could feel the quivering of her arms around him; she sounded livid. "Do you have _any_ idea...?"

"I'm sorry," he replied awkwardly, patting her on the back with a light, hesitant hand.

She stayed quiet for a moment, forehead leaning into his chest.

"You're a son of a bitch," she mumbled, releasing him – caustic words that drew a fond smile from him.

"Thank you," he told her as she stalked away. "For coming to find me."

Sivir turned to look at him, over her shoulder. There was a strange, raw expression on her face, shifting rapidly back into the guarded, wry countenance he was so familiar with. She grinned dangerously, in a way that struck him both true and false.

"Thanks for not dying on me."

.

.

.

She woke in a flash of light.

_And so did he._

.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Yes, it's true. Not only am I updating (somewhat) late again, you also get no closure for the previous chapter.

(Thanks as always.)


	23. Redemption

She had the feeling that she was committing a terrible folly.

Even as she sat amongst the ashes, digging elbow deep through ruined tomes and the remnants of destroyed bookshelves, Morgana asked herself, why? Why was she even bothering? It was one book out of thousands that she had little to no hope of finding, assuming it hadn't been lost among the carnage, and why _exactly_ she was searching for it... was beyond her.

The Fallen Angel sucked in a cough as the rising dust entered her lungs. Her hands were totally blackened now, her skirts heavy from the debris she had inadvertently piled on. The damned Voidborn had ruined much of the League's once expansive archive – but there was a chance yet. Some records had survived.

She brushed the ashes off of a singed cover, tossing it aside once the letters _History of Dem-_ came through. Not it. This _was_ the summoners' section, wasn't it? Where were all of the spellbooks?

Morgana rose, stumbling slightly on deadened legs as the debris and dust fell from the folds of her skirt. Perhaps she was looking in the wrong place. Perhaps the particular book she was looking for would not be in the section available to any run-of-the-mill summoner.

She turned towards the restricted area, treading carefully over the rubble with measured steps. Never had she been allowed in this area – not even when she had been formally admitted into the League. The Curator of the Sands had kept a watchful eye over any who tried to pass, and the Fallen Angel had an inkling that there were more than a few secrets that the Institute wished to keep from the general populace amongst those locked, towering shelves.

The keeper of the archives was not here, however – today, she had free reign.

Morgana toed aside a shattered shelf, tilting her head to take stock of the wreckage underneath. She could make out a few titles off of the battered spines of some intact books, but kneeling down for a closer look yielded nothing of relevance. She scowled, kicking aside a loose pane. The glass shattered against the corner of an overturned shelf.

Too much damned rubbish to sift through – and for what? Why _was _she doing this?

She huffed, tossing over the shelf so that its contents spilled out over the floor. These volumes looked far more intact, and Morgana got on her knees, digging through them. A tome on summoner spells, half a treatise on runes – her fingers brushed over a book with a silver spine.

_Op—ni-g G-tew-_, it read.

She had found it.

.

.

.

"Remind me why this is so important to you?"

"He's being held in maximum security, and I don't even know what for. I'm an officer of the law – do you think I can let that stand without doing some digging?"

Vi watched her partner pace up and down the room, a scowl on her face. The sheriff had been pretty agitated since they'd gotten to Demacia. She had only been there in the aftermath to dig her out of the rubble, but whatever had led up to that point, Viktor getting booked had really gotten to Cait. It was a shame, she thought, rolling out the soreness in her shoulder. She was a lot prettier when she smiled.

"Cupcake, the Demacians are working with the Institute to handle it. Soon as Lantern-jaw's kicking, aren't we going back to Piltover?"

The Enforcer was relatively certain that was the plan, at least. Heimerdinger had phoned in not too long ago complaining about Ziggs. Amazingly it turned out the bomb-crazy yordle was no good for reconstructive work – and the fact that the local crazy bitch kept turning up to drag him off into something stupid didn't help. Their infrastructure was totally decimated, he'd said, and he could really use their help keeping the order.

"We are," answered Caitlyn, with a short nod. "But Jayce has a few days yet until he'll be able to walk upright, let alone travel. I can't stand idle during that time."

Vi snorted. "If you ask me, you're the one that needs a break the most. Your ear's still busted, isn't it?"

The sheriff paused, hand coming up to touch her bandaged-over ear. As she'd heard it, Cho'Gath had fucked up her ear drum with one of his roars. She was still only hearing out of one side, even a few days later.

"Being half-deaf won't put me out of commission," she replied matter-of-factly.

"But the bruised ribs and the sprained ankle? Cupcake, you need to sit the fuck down and rest." The Enforcer stood from where she had been leaning against the dresser, clapping her arms onto her partner's shoulders and steering her towards the bed. She could feel the resistance as Caitlyn dug in her heels.

"Vi, I'm fine, _really_. I can already walk just fine, and I need to work. It's been too long, and there are things I need to sort out," she protested, turning on her.

"Ya say that," she tapped her lightly on the abdomen and watched her wince, "but then you do _that_. Besides, what happens with Viktor isn't our business. If Zaun's got a problem with Demacia holding him, then they'll do something about it."

"Piltover has a vested interest in this as well," she insisted, crossing her arms. "It's merely some investigative work – light. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"You really have a problem," the Enforcer groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Cait was _such_ a workaholic, and it was awful for her health. After spending the last several weeks worked up over her safety, she'd like _some_ peace of mind. The sheriff was already turning to go.

"I haven't seen you for a few weeks, then when I do see you again, I can't have a proper conversation with you for two days. And then you go and get yourself fucked up, you won't rest, and you're telling me _not to worry_?" she demanded, catching her arm as she tried to walk away.

"Vi..."

"Don't 'Vi...' me!" she snapped irritably, hands going to her hips. "You better lie the fuck down and get some sleep, or I'm gonna have to knock you out. For the last month I've been worried _sick_ that you might have gotten your ass killed, and now that I know you're still kicking, I'm not giving you the chance to ruin it."

Her expression fell – the cool composure came off – and for a moment, she was afraid she had been too harsh. But it was Caitlyn.

"I didn't know it was that important to you," she replied softly.

Vi leveled her with a glare. "Of course it's important. You're my partner, Cait."

A pause. The sheriff looked away for a second, then looked back at her.

"...I'm sorry," she sighed, drawing her arms around her in a light hug. "You're right. I'll rest, and then I'll see about Viktor, all right?"

"You'd better," warned Vi, pulling away. "Or else I'm locking you in."

.

.

.

His guts hurt like hell.

Jayce held in a grunt, rolling over painfully onto his side so that he could look out the window. The sky was red by the setting sun, and he had to admire Demacia's cityscape. None of the buildings, grand as they were, blocked the distant horizon. You couldn't watch the sunset in Piltover – there were too many high-rises for that.

Still, it wasn't the place for him. His hands ached to tinker with something mechanical, and it was only the pain that kept him from fidgeting. The Terror of the Void had really done a number on him. The Defender was honestly surprised that he wasn't dead.

When he closed his eyes, he could remember – the trembling of the ground underneath, the ear-splitting roars. The feeling of sharp teeth closing around his abdomen. His side flared at the recollection, and he let out a small, huffing sort of laugh.

Why did he intervene at that time?

Cho'Gath had been chasing them, and he'd thought he might be able to hold him off while the sheriff and the Herald got to where they needed to be. The Terror had passed on right by though, even as he'd hurled shock blast after shock blast after him. He could have gotten off scott-free, if only he hadn't...

An image came to him – of a fallen column of stone, and blood spattering outward, Cho'Gath looming over a prone figure.

If he had just left him to his fate, he would've been fine. But he didn't.

Jayce sucked in a breath, cast-covered arm pressing lightly on his burning side. It was ironic, that he had ended up saving his enemy's life, only to be messed up like this. They _did _say that no good deed went unpunished.

What had possessed him to move, the Defender didn't know. He wanted to say it was the innate morality in him, that no matter the history between them, he didn't have to die. He wanted to say that he had looked beyond the rivalry of Zaun and Piltover and acted on a sense of justice. But none of those seemed to be the right answer – too dressed up for the force that pushed him into intervention.

It must have been the blood, Jayce realized, dark and crimson and pooling all around him.

It had reminded him that Viktor was still human.

.

.

.

She couldn't move.

It wasn't a numb, out of body sort of paralysis, either, but a heavy, gripping one, weighing down on her limbs with a dull throbbing. Through the haze of pain, she could make out the crumbling roof of the Institute's archives. An evening sky showed through.

Kayle tried to move her fingers first, feeling them strain before yielding the slightest twitch. They curled in, and she tried to make a fist, then to lift her arm. Then she tried to sit up.

"Ugh...!"

A mistake. The skin on her back stretched tight about sore wounds, and she had to pull up her knees and curl into herself immediately to deal with the dizziness.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"I'm well aware," she ground out, eyes shut tight in order to ride out the onslaught of nausea that assaulted her. A hand pulled at her shoulder, and she looked up reluctantly, eyes squinting in the dimness.

"Drink this." The neck of a bottle was pressed to her lips. Kayle took a careful sip. "The pain should subside soon."

It was a health potion – she recognized the taste – and the Judicator grabbed the bottle, upending it and gulping down its contents. Wiping her mouth with one hand, she shot a wary, sideways look at her unlikely savior.

"Why?"

Morgana leveled a stare at her, bright eyes peering out of the darkness. She said nothing.

"Is this a means to revenge?" She sat up straighter, turning to look at her directly. "Are you aiding me only to kill me? Or have you poisoned me already?"

Her sister made no reply.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Now that you are no longer bound by the League, your chance to destroy me is here." Kayle leaned forward, eyes narrowing to a glare. "Well, now? Make it quick. I won't beg."

She was nothing without her wings, now – there was nothing to carry her justice on, nothing to distinguish her as an immortal being from the mortals of this realm. She was not an angel without wings. There was nothing for her beyond this, and there was little doubt in her mind that Morgana knew this. She must have relished it.

"I wanted to kill you," she answered softly.

The Judicator smiled sharply. Of course.

"_Wanted_," her sister stressed. "Now..."

"Now what?" she demanded. "You want to make amends? You want to reconcile? Your betrayal has cost me _everything_."

"_My_ betrayal?" Morgana snapped. "_My_ betrayal cost you everything?"

"You forsook me and our cause, and you turned your back on the Institute that sheltered you," she shot back angrily, ignoring the pulsating ache in her back. Kayle laughed, bitterly. "You cannot deny this."

"_You_ forsook _me_," she cried, finger pointed at her accusingly. "_You_ were the one who broke our blood bonds first!"

"You turned against our cause!"

"I never turned against anything!" Morgana glowered at her, teeth bared in a half-snarling scowl. "Just because I didn't want to join your army didn't mean I was against you!"

"And yet you turned to darkness anyway!" she spat back, batting away her sister's hand. "You embraced evil!"

"I did it because of _you_!" She seemed to rear back, hands splayed out as if she wanted to grab something. Morgana took a long, shuddering breath, repeating quietly,"I did it all because of you."

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither saying a word.

"What changed, then?" she asked with an unsteady voice. "You had no problem during matches – and now you're telling me you don't want to kill me now that the opportunity arises?"

Morgana looked away from her, running a shaky hand through her dark hair.

"It would have been permanent," she started to say, and there was something that stopped her words for a second. "I couldn't... For some reason, I just... I realized that – you're still my sister." She laughed brokenly, an odd strain in her voice as if it were rising from a strangled throat. "I hate it - but you're still... my sister."

Kayle stared at her – this creature of darkness, this fallen angel – that had been her greatest ally once. The one who had ruined everything, who had cost her everything.

Her only sister.

"We can never go back," she said quietly. She felt so strange, suddenly. So hollow.

Morgana shook her head slowly, closing her eyes. A deep breath passed through her lips.

"_I_ can never go back, but you..."

She drew out a book from behind her. Kayle took it carefully from her hands – ran her thumb over the beaten, silver spine.

"This is a spellbook?"

Her sister nodded. "A means to summon champions from other planes... and to send them back."

She glanced at her incredulously. "What are you suggesting?"

"Go back." Morgana leveled her with a steady stare. "Go back, and reclaim your wings."

"I can never reclaim my wings," she murmured bitterly, but her sister shook her head.

"There is a way. There is a place. Don't you remember?"

"You can't mean – the work of the Masters?" Morgana nodded. "But their secrets have been lost for aeons. You don't honestly believe -"

"There is a lot I don't honestly believe," she broke in, voice low with some emotion that Kayle could not place. "But right now, it's your best chance, isn't it?"

"And you?" she demanded, leaning forward. Even if she did find a way to fly again, how could she leave her sister behind after going through so much to chase after her? "What will you do? Do you expect me to let you run rampant?"

Morgana rose, skirt straightening out, dark wings unfolding until she loomed over her. There was a smile on her face, muted and bitter.

"I will stay – and face justice."

.

.

.

He didn't think anyone would come visit – certainly, not her.

"How you holding up, Lantern-jaw?"

Jayce flashed a weak smile at her, propped up among pillows as he was on the narrow cot. The Enforcer seemed healthy. In much better straights than him, at least, as she pulled a chair up to his bedside with ease.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he admitted wryly. "I'm in excruciating pain, thanks for asking."

"Serves you right, trying to play hero again," she said, smirking at him. "Easiest way to get yourself fucked over."

"Is that concern I detect?" asked the Defender jokingly. "I didn't know you cared."

"Just parting some wisdom to you, buddy. Getting real sick of seeing people banged up. You guys're really bringing me down." Vi crossed her arms behind her head, leaning back. "How long you got?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "What, until I die?"

"Hah! If only." She leaned forward slightly, in a stretch. "Until you get out. Me and the sheriff can't wait on your ass forever."

Jayce tried for a shrug and then immediately regretted it.

"Don't know. The doctor didn't say," he told her, exhaling carefully through clenched teeth. The Defender glanced back towards her. "Where is the sheriff, by the way?"

The Enforcer rolled her eyes, and he figured he could guess.

"She's off poking around into Demacia's business. I got her to sleep the full eight hours, and then it was right back to work," she huffed, blowing a lock of hair to the side. "She's got her panties in a real twist over the crazy they got locked up."

"Who, Viktor?" The mention of the primary cause of his hospitalization caused his side to ache and he breathed in deeply through his nose. Jayce was beginning to wonder if it was a psychological association. "What for?"

"She's real suspicious about the charges, or something," explained Vi airily, picking at her ear with one pinky. "I don't know. I wasn't paying that _much_ attention when she was talking about it."

"What's the relationship between them, by the way? They seemed on pretty good terms."

"I think it has something to do with back when Cupcake just joined the force. He helped her out once, or something, and they kept contact?" She shrugged. "I don't know. She didn't really tell me much about it, and I wasn't around then."

"I can't imagine Viktor just helping the sheriff for nothing, the way he is," he remarked, a little incredulously. Even if it had been years ago, the day he'd first met the Machine Herald in person still weighed heavily in his mind.

"Maybe he was less crazy then," she offered noncommittally, shrugging again. "All I know is they go way back."

Jayce made a humming noise in the back of his throat, pondering. What had Viktor been like, before he started turning himself to machine? He hadn't even known that he and the sheriff were acquainted.

Thinking back on it, it was strange how much things changed. He used to admire him quite a bit when he was fresh out of school. Even if he was from Zaun, the great Machine Herald and his Glorious Evolution seemed like such a breakthrough at the time. He had wanted to be like him, if only a little bit. The Defender of Tomorrow let out a short laugh that stopped short in his throat, ignoring the curious glance Vi shot him.

He had been so excited when the Institute had recruited him for work on the system. It seemed like such a privilege – they'd said the team was hand picked by the lead scientist, and that had thrilled him like nothing else. It meant that he had talent. When he recalled it, his time spent on that project, it seemed to him that it was the springboard that launched him into his career. Then came work on the arcane crystal, and the Machine Herald requesting to meet him in person, and he had been so eager.

Things unraveled after that.

"Uh, Lantern-jaw? Helloooo?"

Jayce blinked, snapping out of his brief reverie. "Uh. Sorry?"

"Don't just stare into space like that when other people are around," she told him dryly, crossing her arms. "It's creepy."

"I thought women liked brooding men," he said, playfully flashing her a half-smirk. He made a mental note not to do that much anymore. It made his face feel tight.

"Maybe some chicks dig it, but I think that's usually when they're not half-dead," she shot back, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

"Ow!" He sucked in a breath. "That really hurts, you know?"

Vi grinned at him smugly.

"Case and point."

.

.

.

This was not her home.

These grand, gilded structures – these tall, magnificent spires – were not hers. They could not be.

There was no one here.

Kayle stumbled forward, out of the shadow of a looming tower, into the bright light. She looked up, carefully so as not to hurt her neck. There was a golden sky.

This was her world. It had to be, or else some twisted mirror of it, for nothing could replicate that sky. Runeterra's horizon had been beautiful, with its constantly shifting pallets, but here, the heavens were beyond glorious, and she had spent long, long years yearning for the sight of it again. She remembered it in her heart, had committed the vision of resplendent, white god-rays shining through wispy, roseate clouds to memory.

Her breath caught in her throat. The Judicator struggled forth, onto the smoothed path that led into the heart of the city. How could she deny it any longer? Morgana had been right. The spell had worked, and she had indeed returned, though there was not a soul in sight.

Questions raced through her mind at breakneck pace. How much time had passed between her summoning and her return? What had happened, and where had everyone gone?

A throbbing seized her – a pulsating ache that shuddered down her spine and reminded her of her purpose. Kayle breathed in deeply, and steadied her stride. The first order of business: her wings.

She staggered towards the Grand Library.

.

.

.

"Stop right there!"

The thunderous sound of hurried footsteps and the sharp ring of drawn swords. She turned slowly from the wall.

"If you make the slightest move, my men _will_ kill you."

Soldiers, carrying Demacian standards. She regarded them with an even glance, asking lowly, "What do you want?"

Their captain barked out an acrid laugh. "Don't play innocent. We know you were involved, Fallen Angel. We have orders to take you in."

Morgana closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply. She held out her arms.

"Do it, then."

A thousand years of pain for the power she had sought, the destruction she had caused. She had reaped enough of suffering. She could endure a thousand more.

.

.

.

The room smelled sterile.

The cell-door shut behind her with a click, and she took quiet, careful steps, afraid to disturb him. His head lifted slightly, and he looked up.

"You know everything already," he coughed. "There isn't anything more."

"My god," she whispered, kneeling in front of him.

He looked terrible.

"Is that you, sheriff?" he asked, and his gaze shifted from side to side, as if searching for something. Caitlyn leaned in closer to look – and then recoiled.

His eyes – eyes that had been bright, and green, and swirling – were utterly dark.

"It's you, isn't it?" he murmured, lowering his head again. For a long moment, the sheriff couldn't find it in her to speak.

What had they done to him?

Viktor sat pinned to the wall, chains crossed against his chest so that his torso was entirely restrained. One arm they had manacled to the wall – the mechanical one left well alone He'd been strung up entirely.

His lower half was missing – she could see the stains around the mangled edges of his armor. Blood was crusted around his mouth, a trail left running down his chin. A medical tube fed into his nose, taped to his cheek; she could hear the wheezing of a machine in the far corner of the room.

"Viktor... You've gone blind?" she asked hesitantly, for lack of anything better to say.

He looked up again, in her general direction, quirking a strange half-smile at her. "They disabled most of my augments... Tried to nullify me completely as a threat."

"Who? How?"

"The girl. The mage. One little snap of her fingers near my eyes, and she became the last thing I've seen in three days," he told her simply. She could see the fingers on his human hand twitch. "It's damnable how easily magic interferes with technology given the right circumstances..."

The Machine Herald let out a sputtering cough.

"And this blood?" she murmured, fingertips grazing over his chin. He turned away from her.

"Had some internal bleeding when my pelvis was shattered," explained the scientist, with a chilling calm. "They said that the force was so great, some bone fragments were forced upwards and punctured my lungs. At any rate, they had to amputate from the waist down in order to extricate me from the rubble."

Caitlyn resisted a shudder. "How are you even still alive?"

"It's a wondrous concoction, is it not?" he asked her, and for one moment she had no idea what he was talking about. Then Viktor coughed, and turned back to look at her, and she understood. "They say that the professor developed it. Enough regenerative properties to keep me alive, but in this amount, not enough to heal."

She took the far end of the tube between her fingers, felt its tautness as gas pumped through it.

"They won't give you a respirator?"

"No." The muted smile appeared again, unsettling and almost deranged. "After all, I could not answer my interrogators as well with one on."

The sheriff felt something in her chest clench tight, something burn white hot and tremble all the same. This was just cruelty. Vicious, meaningless cruelty. Even if he were a criminal, there was no reason to treat him like _this_.

"Why are they doing this?" she demanded, voice steely. "What are they charging you with?"

He laughed a hacking, guttering laugh that sounded as if it were dredged up from deep within his lungs. "Crimes against Valoran... and all of Runeterra."

"For what?" she asked incredulously. "The system?"

"For obtaining power no one was meant to have," he whispered savagely.

"You weren't the one who exploited it – you weren't the one who used it to subjugate," she protested hotly. "That was the Institute of War!"

Viktor glanced up with a cutting smile, eyes not quite finding hers. "And yet, who do you think is charging me?"

Caitlyn crumbled backwards, legs folding underneath her.

"A scapegoat," she muttered to herself, even though she'd known it somewhere inside of her all along.

He made a sound halfway between a pained breath and a chuckle. "Yes."

This was _not_ justice.

"I'll make an appeal," she said. "I'll make a plea with the Demacian court, or bring it before Piltover."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but-"

"I'll get you extradited back to Zaun, if I have to," she interrupted, voice with a cold, collected fierceness beyond her understanding. "The Institute was destroyed – there are almost no summoners left, and their power is in shambles."

Caitlyn looked down at him, half of the man that had saved her life only three days ago.

"Sheriff..." he started.

"I'll do whatever it takes," she assured him softly, "because you don't deserve this."

Viktor laughed again – shorter, quieter – a melancholic smile coming to his bloodied lips.

"You don't know what I deserve."

"I know enough," replied Caitlyn firmly. "I know that you had the power to control us, to use us – that at any time, you could have terminated us at your whim. And I know that you didn't."

A second of stillness – and then he drew a long, stuttering breath.

"...I may be more machine than man," he murmured wearily, "but I am not a monster."

Something she didn't understand compelled her then to take his hand – the mechanical one, limp and non-functioning. She turned his palm over in hers, traced her thumb over the bolted-knuckles and rough wiring. Viktor made no indication that he knew what she was doing, and she realized that he didn't. Both his eyes and the arm were disabled. For some reason that realization made her clasp his hand tight.

"Sheriff?" he called out, almost hesitantly. There was something lost in his voice.

"I'm still here," she answered quietly. For a long moment, silence fell over them – and then the Machine Herald began to speak.

"I feel strange," he began, voice odd and stilted. "It must be because they tampered with my augments."

"What do you mean?"

"There is nothing moderating my thoughts, or emotions. Right now..." Viktor breathed in deeply through his nose, as if to confirm something. "I am utterly human - just a man. The man I was ten years ago."

She didn't know how to respond to that.

"You know my history, don't you?" he asked, after a lengthy pause. "The creation of Blitzcrank?"

"I know that credit was stolen from you," offered Caitlyn. "That it ruined you at first."

"It didn't just ruin me," he told her, smiling bitterly, "it _destroyed_ me. I was young. Idealistic. I tried to convince myself that the credit didn't matter if it was for the greater good, that I shouldn't be angry or jealous of Pididly – but I couldn't. I couldn't shed those terrible emotions, no matter how I tried.

"So I ran away. I tried to rebuild, to recreate myself." Viktor tilted his head, gazing into some faraway scape that was beyond her. "Machines... they do not deviate from their purpose, they do not clamber for credit or acclaim. They work. They perform. They are perfect.

"I wanted that perfection. I struggled for it," he went on, with a wheezing cough. "I replaced part after part of myself, performed dangerous self-operations to come closer to that ideal being. There is comparatively little left of me that is original, by this point, and yet..."

He faltered, face twisting into some kind of bitter self-hatred, some kind of all-consuming anguish and doubt and despair that was so forthcoming and vulnerable and _raw_ that it shook her. Without realizing it, she reached out, almost to touch him.

"And yet after all this time," he continued, voice low and straining – the sheriff watched as his manacled hand clenched into a fist, "I am still _just_ a man."

"No," she heard herself saying. In her own voice there was a strange, indescribable sort of waver. "You're much more than that."

Viktor didn't respond, closing his eyes. When she turned to look he was slumped over where he sat, as if speaking had drained the energy from him. A long period of silence passed.

"I have a request, sheriff. If you'll take it," he said quietly, at last. "Two, rather."

"What is it?"

He looked up for her, dark eyes glancing about. "They confiscated my belongings when I was incarcerated. There's something amongst them I need delivered."

"To whom?"

"You will know when you find it," he answered, with a half-smile that was only tired.

"All right," she said, nodding even though he could not see. "And the second request?"

He jerked his head towards the far corner of the cell. "Disconnect that machine."

"You'll die, won't you?" Caitlyn protested, with a start. "I can't do that."

"Would you keep me living like this?" he demanded sharply. The Machine Herald let out a hacking cough. "I won't have it."

"But I couldn't possibly... This would be assisted suicide."

"The Institute will not grant me the mercy of death." Viktor stared up at her – or where he thought she was – with darkly incisive eyes. "Why won't you? My system is still online. There is a chance."

Even though he could not see her – even though he wasn't really looking at her, Caitlyn turned away. "There's too much of a risk."

"One I am willing to take," he insisted. "Sheriff... please. Before they shut it down."

She glanced back at him – at his blank, sunken in eyes, at his gaunt and weathered face and his blood crusted mouth, at his mangled armor and blood-spattered clothing – at his suffering. She looked down at the mechanical hand he had crafted out of nothing, at its wondrous complexities, twisting wires, smooth plating, worn bolts. She saw a man of genius, utterly broken. And she made a choice.

"It will be a slow death," she warned, climbing unsteadily to her feet. "If you respawn, they may consider it an escape attempt."

"I am prepared to deal with the consequences," answered Viktor, through a heavy, shuddering breath that sounded as if he was holding in a wheeze.

The sheriff stumbled on shaky legs to the corner of the room, reaching around for the power cord.

She pulled the plug.

.

.

.

The Institute ordered the system shut down the next night, and posted guards on standby for latent, respawning champions. They had her pending for punishment in aiding a criminal.

Even so, when she put the request forth, Prince Jarvan allowed her to search through the confiscated belongings. Viktor's were in a heavy chest kept under lock and key.

When Caitlyn opened it, the first thing she dug out was a ragged teddy bear.

.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. I must have mentioned somewhere that Viktor is one of my favorites.

(Thanks for reading and other such things!)


	24. Renewal

Empty.

He didn't know if he was describing himself, or the room. He had dug out as much rubble as he could, and propped up the last vestiges of its roof, but it had been stripped by looters while he was gone.

The last month had been all a blur. Zaun wasn't decimated like Piltover, but it had still been wrecked, and most of the city's key figures had disappeared. There was a lot of reconstruction to do, and he had given it his best.

Even so, he couldn't help but feel utterly hollow inside.

_There is a sky above him made entirely of smoke._

Zac trudged wearily in with a strange heaviness about him that he couldn't shrug off. It hung on him like a weighty shroud, and try as he might, he just couldn't get the bounce back into his step. Settling onto the dingy half-couch, with the slanted seat and the scummy cushions, all he could think about was going home to his folks.

Mom would be so happy to see him, and she'd probably have coffee on the stove – she was really big on coffee when she was stressed, as he suspected an interplanar threat might make her – and Dad would probably be complaining about how she was using the labware for her cooking again. Despite himself, a tiny smile found its way to his face. It felt tight, like it stretched his cheeks even if he had only moved them just a little bit. The Secret Weapon sighed. He just wanted to go home, stuff his face with sweets, and go to sleep.

It struck him then, something cold and dry feeling in his chest, as if it was withering him up inside. What in the world was he saying? He_ was_ home. He and Twitch had roomed together for at least a year.

Zac hunched over, head held in his hands as he tried not to listen to the silence. The echoing of dripping water resounded all too loudly in the distant tunnels, pitter-pattering little noises that he mistook for the scurrying of feet if he wasn't careful. He was really glad he couldn't produce tears either – he might have shriveled up by now if he did.

_Little claws, stiff and limp all the same, a bloody coat shoddily mended – a face, far, far too peaceful._

"Don't do this to yourself," he muttered under his breath, eyes shut tight. "You know how it goes... Keep it together._ Keep it together,_ Zac."

He wasn't sure if he really meant it, or if he was just trying to fill in the silence.

_There's a rumbling in the distance – screams all around. He should move, he has to move, to help people, to save them._

_ He just sits there on the concrete, arms full, but empty._

"I want this to be a dream."

The Secret Weapon wasn't certain if he had said it or thought it. It was hard to tell when he was all on his own, no one to call him out if he was rambling. The only thing he was certain of was that it was true.

There was a rolling in his torso – not quite his chest, but not quite his stomach either. Some kind of insidious, unsettling sort of feeling that made him nauseous and nervous and restless all at once. Zac hefted himself onto his feet, a slight wobble in his legs before he stabilized and started to pace, up the room, down the room, around the rubble and what was left of the furniture.

Zaun had pulled the plug on its support of the Institute of War – and so had a lot of the other city states. They had been incredibly riled up when news broke about the system. Piltover got on its ethical science high horse, and Demacia got on its everything high horse, and they both left. Then Ionia called it an utter betrayal and a house of iniquity – among other things – and officially pulled out too. Zaun was just pissed off about its dealings with the Machine Herald, and he couldn't even guess why Noxus left, if only just because it didn't seem worth it to stay. Official announcements from Bilgewater, Bandle City, and such were still pending.

The League was dissolving, and so was the Institute.

He would be lying if he said that the truth hadn't disturbed him, hadn't shaken him to his core – he'd almost thrown up finding out about it – and it wasn't as if he didn't support taking down the Institute. But the fact that everything he had known for so long was crumbling so fast was... Hard to swallow, to say the least.

_When the quiet fell, he doesn't know. He feels as if he has been staring into the gray horizon for an eternity. When she arrived, he doesn't know either, but suddenly, Janna is pulling at his arms, telling him, "We need to bury him, Zac."_

_ "You're right," he says softly, nodding. She pulls again._

_ He can't let go._

It hadn't been a perfect world. In fact, he had been trying his damnedest to change it for the better. But it had been a world where he knew what went where, who went with whom, what was and wasn't. It had been a world where he had been happy, and every time he so much as glanced at a rusted pipe, he wasn't sure he could ever be happy again.

It was stupid, he knew. But for him, this was how mourning went.

Zac heaved another sigh and covered his eyes with one hand. He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed to straighten out. Moping was getting him nowhere, and he couldn't just sit around in the sewers all day – but suddenly, he didn't want to run home to his parents anymore either. It felt like a kind of cowardice.

The Secret Weapon stretched his limbs, only slightly at first, then widely, until the gentle tug became a yanking on his core, and he felt as if he might snap in two. He felt as if the straining sensation grounded him. What to do, where to go? He couldn't stand to sit and stew anymore – there was too much festering within.

Maybe he wouldn't run back to his parents, but he could still get out of Zaun for a little bit. He'd done his share of rebuilding, and the Machine Herald had showed up a few days ago, and with him a resurgence of his acolytes throughout the city. He didn't know where any of the city bigwigs had got to, but Viktor could handle it. He would have to.

He hadn't even been in the den an hour after getting back from the latest building project, but Zac didn't care. He needed to leave – he needed to leave right now. He could sleep on the road, scrounge up some kind of food later. The Secret Weapon bounded hurriedly for the door.

It was time to pay a visit to his friends.

_._

_._

_._

"This compound should have a longer duration than its predecessor. More than the fifteen minutes afforded to you last time, at any rate. Give it a moment to run."

The Revered Inventor gave the heavy tanks on his back a tap as the low hiss of gas sputtered, and then filled the room. He rose from where he knelt, and then closed and opened one hand experimentally, checking for any tangible difference. Something bitter settled on his tongue – at the very least, the taste was the same.

"Do you feel any pain?" asked Heimerdinger, stepping back to survey his work.

He gave a low laugh, raspy by the echoes of the respirator. "I am always in pain, professor."

"But any less?" he pressed, crossing his arms. "I finally found a gaseous anesthetic capable of working in tandem with this cocktail. A very fascinating one, recommended to me by a surgeon. Not too strong as to incapacitate you – but also comprising of chemicals that won't react with the regeneratives. It's really a very intriguing discovery. I ought to tell you about it one of these days."

"You've just told me about it," pointed out Kassadin, with a wry smile hidden beneath his mask. "But to answer your question, it is a little less, perhaps. I cannot be sure."

"Oh! What a fool I am," cried the yordle, giving his temple a light rap. "Now that I've mentioned it to you, it could just be a placebo effect. The opportunity's lost – oh, what a shame..."

"It's fine, professor," said the Void Walker with a placating hand raised. "If nothing else, it is doing no harm. I appreciate the efforts you've gone to help me with this."

"I owe you at least that much," Heimerdinger responded. There was a strange shift in his inflection – sounding something like regret.

This was a change. Kassadin frowned, though it was not visible, tilting his head slightly. "If anything, I am the one who is indebted to you. I would not be alive were it not for your efforts."

The Revered Inventor sighed, pulling himself up onto a stool and reclining back onto the laboratory counter. He glanced up at the Void Walker with an unreadable gaze.

"Even so," he began, adjusting his goggles, "you are in a considerable amount of pain, aren't you?"

"That is no fault of yours," he reminded him, quietly. "I will be in pain as long as I live."

It was true, existing on the brink of death was not pleasant. The sensation of necrosis was... consuming. It was a constant burning, a feeling of something eating away at him underneath his skin. The dark energy of the Void pulsated within his heart, hummed with each breath he took in such a way that he could never forget it was there. In it, there was a strange ache, a convulsing strain that felt of illness but sang with temptation – to what sin, he did not know, nor ever have the intention of finding out – but it made every breath sharp, every swallow thick. He found reprieve only in sleep.

"Perhaps you're right," agreed the Revered Inventor. There was an air of weariness to him that Kassadin was not used to. It brought his age to sharp relief. "But, you would not be alive were it not for me. You would not be suffering had I not arbitrarily taken your fate into my hands."

"What do you mean?"

"When you were rushed into the academy clinic all those years ago, you were... a lost cause," he explained, inhaling deeply. "I was called down to supervise, you see, as you were a very peculiar patient, and when we ran diagnostics tests on you, you were harboring an incredible amount of magical energy."

The Void Walker glanced down at his hand – at where it had clutched at his chest without his even realizing – and slowly, he dropped it back to his side. Heimerdinger watched him knowingly.

"I thought that it would be a terrible waste if you were to die," continued the professor, sounding very far away. "So I had you placed on the best life support we had and did some research. You were in a constant state of necrosis, the origin of which we could not determine – but we hypothesized that if we found a way to counteract it, you stood a chance of surviving."

"I have always wondered how you went about developing this chemical," remarked Kassadin, with tentative curiosity. "You are not a man of medicine, if you'll forgive me saying."

"Certainly not," he concurred, with a heavy sigh. "But even if I am a man of mechanical sciences, I did do my studies in chemistry – which is the basis of all medicine, you see. The archive had some very intriguing, some very incredible, very_ unethical_ data, published by a doctor from Zaun. An expert on regeneratives, you see."

"You don't mean_ that_ doctor?" asked the Void Walker, surprised.

"Although he's certainly a brute, I won't deny that Dr. Mundo gets results," admitted Heimerdinger, grimacing. "It was through his notes that I was able to develop the miracle cocktail that keeps you alive today."

"I don't see how you can have regrets in that, professor. What you did was a marvelous thing, and I owe you all the more for it."

"But what I did was merely a means to prolong your suffering," the yordle observed bitterly. "I have seen the way you carry yourself. Heard the way you speak. You are a man waiting to die, Void Walker, do not deny it."

"Though I am wanting for reasons to live," he told him calmly,"there is no shame in saving a life."

"But there is shame in agonizing one," returned the Revered Inventor, shaking his head. "Is it not a struggle for you to carry on like this? You are a literal dead man walking, do you realize that?"

Kassadin chuckled lowly. "All too well." He paused, sucking in a deep, aching breath full of vapors, before exhaling slowly. "Certainly, I feel that I was meant to die at the bay – die as the Prophet did, both our purposes fulfilled. But if I have lived, it is for a reason. Don't you think?"

The professor leaned over the counter, head resting in his hands. He didn't reply for a long moment, and the Void Walker wondered if he had heard him at all.

"Maybe so... Maybe so." He heaved another deep sigh. "But nonetheless I have created something that only brings suffering. I should have predicted it from the beginning. Anything born off the back of the Madman of Zaun could do no good."

"What do you mean?"

"I sent a canister of the original cocktail to the Demacians," answered Heimerdinger, and interestingly, there were tangible notes of agitation entering his voice. The yordle shifted on his stool. "I received a call about high-profile patients in critical condition, who needed to be stabilized en route to a hospital. Demacia and Piltover have always held close ties, so I saw nothing wrong. Only later did I find out what they used it for."

"Does this have something to do with the recent outcry in Zaun, and one of its alleged reasons for withdrawing from the League?" asked the Void Walker curiously.

He nodded. "Yes. I got the full story from the sheriff later – she was certainly livid about it, as was I!" Heimerdinger adjusted his goggles once more, brows furrowing such that his anger was palpable. "Though they did use it for its original purpose, it turns out that at the behest of Institute officials, they employed it for torture as well! Can you imagine it?"

Kassadin grimaced beneath his helmet. A gruesome deed, though well within the hearts of Demacians. They were not so moral as they liked to think. In war, no one was.

"I have no love for the Machine Herald. The man is brilliant, but mad. However – to treat him as they did...!" Heimerdinger harrumphed, crossing his arms. "The political backlash was well deserved, I say! A deplorable act of inhumanity was what it was."

He sat there, puffed up and furious for a moment, then seemed to deflate all at once. For the umpteenth time, the yordle sighed heavily.

"And I facilitated it," he cursed beneath his breath, clutching at his hair. "What a fool I am! To expect anything good out of dabbling with the work of a sadist! I should have just kept to my turrets..."

"And left me to die?" asked the Void Walker. He shook his head. "Take no shame in your work, professor. You told me yourself that scientific development was never a bad thing. That even failures yielded data that would in turn yield –"

"Progress," finished Heimerdinger. He gave a short, bitter laugh. "The very words out of my own mouth. You have listened far too closely to the ramblings of an old man."

"An old man that has taught me much," reminded Kassadin gently. "You hold yourself far too accountable for your own inventions. If we were all responsible for the sins of our creations, a great many techmaturgists would be in jail."

The Revered Inventor sat for a long while, regarding him with a critical eye that he could not see, but could sense. Heimerdinger hmph'ed, turning away from him sharply.

"I've taught you less than you believe, I think." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, into a tired, conceding smile. "Your advice is far too practical."

At that, he had to laugh. "And yet, still lacking in hard data, you would say."

"Hm-hm!" The professor chuckled. "We have spent far too much time in each others' presence is what I say."

"When you take a man apart and put him back together again, a few meetings a year is enough to know him inside out." Kassadin paused, going back over his own words. "Literally, I suppose."

"Not an experience I want to repeat," commented the Revered Inventor mildly. "Men are far messier than machines."

"And for that, I am glad," he replied. "Or else you would be a menace like none other."

.

.

.

"You cut your hair."

It was a simple observation – one that he wasn't certain as to why he made, as it should have been fairly apparent to both of them. Pointless. Ahri smiled coyly, running her hand through her now shoulder-length hair. There was something in her eyes that he had never seen before, even if the expression was familiar. It was something very worn.

"I thought it was time for a change," she replied softly. Her face turned uncharacteristically pensive. "It seems like a good season for change."

The Eye of Twilight inclined his head towards her. "But are you not cold? You are rather... exposed."

She was wearing a fur-trimmed dress, made of thick looking material that seemed well-insulated, but her legs were not covered. It was already autumn – nearing winter – and in Ionia, particularly where the Shojin Monastery was located, it was very cold. It would be unfortunate if she were to fall ill.

The fox laughed, and it was quiet, and gentle. She was being very strange today.

"The same as ever," said Ahri, gaze turning downwards. "No, I'm warm enough."

Shen nodded once, crossing his arms and watching as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The Nine-Tailed Fox glanced back up at him, a far more familiar smile painting her lips.

"Come to think of it, I never did get to thank you for helping me," she remarked cheerfully. "I heard about it from the sheriff."

"I only did what was needed," he replied simply. The times had been turbulent, and it had been imperative that they stood united. That brooked no special gesture of gratitude – not by his estimation.

"You saved my life," she pointed out. "Let me repay you."

"You owe me nothing," maintained Shen impassively. She had no more of a debt to him than the Unforgiven for delivering her to the Starchild. Were it not for her swift treatment, even his intervention would not have saved her. What could she possibly repay him with, at any rate?

Ahri tilted her head, drawing near. "It's custom to repay people who have done something for you, isn't it? That's what I've been told."

"It is also custom to refuse unnecessary payments," remarked the Eye of Twilight. He backed slightly from her reach. She was standing far too close.

"I think you're just being stubborn," she said, pouting. There was a hand on his arm, and he tensed. "I've been told that people do that sometimes too."

The Nine-Tailed Fox took another step closer, and Shen leaned back in response. There was something else in her eyes, something purposeful, yet somehow painfully clueless just the same. Her head tilted upwards, to properly face him, and with a jolt he realized what she intended - and silently cursed the fool who taught her such falsities.

"I do not think whatever you're about to do is wise," came his terse warning. Should he use force? No, perhaps too excessive - and what was the harm in allowing her this much?

Two hands rested themselves on his shoulders, and the Eye of Twilight stiffened. Ahri smiled at him.

"Hush," she murmured, leaning in, "and let me thank you."

It was quick – a simple peck on the lips through his mask – but he stood still as stone until she pulled back, noting her cheerful beam in dismay. For all her experience in seduction, her understanding of normal, social gestures was really...

There was a figure down the hall, and Shen stifled a sigh.

"Your wanton displays of affection are going to bring you trouble," he told the fox, gesturing over her shoulder. She turned to look.

It was Akali, fast approaching, and she seemed extraordinarily unamused. Her swift, purposeful stride did more than betray her displeasure, and the moment she reached them, she seized Ahri by the shoulder.

"What was that?" she demanded, in a low voice.

The Nine-Tailed Fox did not answer immediately, looking at the Fist of Shadow with a bright-eyed gaze. A smile stretched across her face – a smile of ill omen, if his experience was anything to go by.

She grabbed Akali by the front of her clothing and then – to the immense surprise of both Kinkou – pecked her on the mask as well.

"There!" she exclaimed, pulling back with a wide grin. "Now you're even."

Akali sputtered, recoiling in shock before lunging forward, attempting to catch the retreating fox.

"Wha-!"

"Have fun, you two!" called Ahri over her shoulder, already running down the hall. She paused for a moment, to blow the both of them a playful kiss, before disappearing around the corner.

"Well," he said, after a time. Akali shot him a sideways glance. "She seems to have reverted to her usual self."

"That girl is strange," she huffed, brushing herself off, "but it is good if she is in high spirits. Her punishment will not be light if any of the city states attempt to indict her."

"With the Institute's dissolution, I doubt that any will press charges," he replied soberly. "Nonetheless, she means well, and did not act out of malice."

"Meaning well is not enough these days," Akali remarked, crossing her arms. "People are slow to forgive."

"By your experience," the Eye of Twilight pointed out. She had always been very vindictive. "In her case, they will have patience. She is rather misguided in the realm of human interaction, as it stands."

His companion shrugged one shoulder. "If you say so, then so it must be. The Nine-Tailed Fox is of little concern right now." Akali glanced at him with a keen gaze. "The judgment of the Unforgiven still requires your input."

Shen closed his eyes.

"I will review the evidence submitted in due time," he replied at length. "Allow none to harass him until then."

"Understood," she said, with a single nod. "I will be off."

He bowed his head to her as she went, watching as she slunk away into the shadows. Even in the safety of the monastery, it seemed she could not shake old habits. In a strange way, for that, he was glad. It was an element of constancy in a rapidly changing time.

The Institute had been dismantled by the propagation of the truth, and after the near-disaster at the bay, the Kinkou Order had yet managed to restore a tentative balance in the realm of nature. However, there was an element of uncertainty that seemed incredibly foreboding – some air of shifting power, rising tension that did not bid well for the future. Zaun remained unstable, and many of its prominent figures were still missing. There seemed to be activity in both Demacia and Noxus of a militant nature that was concerning, to say the least, as well as an upsurge of strange rumors from Shurima.

Trouble painted the horizon, this he knew for sure. Whether they, or Ionia, were equipped to deal with it was another matter entirely.

.

.

.

He was glad she was happy. Someone needed to be.

"Daddy makes Amumu sleep in the shed," Annie told him, skipping at his side as they strolled past the houses of her village. "He says that he doesn't want a mummy in the house at night."

"That's a weird reason to make someone sleep in a shed," chuckled Zac. "What's he got against mummies?"

"He said he didn't want him getting dust everywhere," she replied, swinging her arms. "I don't know. It's great though – we can play everyday."

The Secret Weapon patted her on the head, a muted smile on his face.

"As long as you're having fun with your life."

He had fully expected to be met with some kind of resistance when he decided to pay Annie a visit, but it looked like the people in her community remembered the last time he showed up a month or two ago. Her parents had been very welcoming when they heard about him, and he was pretty pleased at that.

The Secret Weapon spared a nod for a passerby that had waved to Annie, trying not to be too conspicuous – not that that was possible. The Dark Child skipped alongside him happily, waving her teddy bear around. Speaking of...

"Say, how'd you find Tibbers?" he asked curiously, shooting the raggedy animal a glance. As far as he knew, she hadn't gone back to the Institute. Who'd picked him up?

"He came in the mail," she answered simply, hugging him close. "Mommy said he came express."

"Really? Was there a letter?"

Annie nodded eagerly. "Yeah! I almost read it all by myself, but I couldn't do some of the words."

"Wow, that's really cool," he said, smiling at her. "Who was it from?"

"It was from the police lady," she told him, beaming. "She got him cleaned and everything!"

"Aw. That's real nice of her. Are you gonna write back?"

"Yeah! Mommy told me to wait until it's not so busy anymore," said Annie, nodding. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Say Mr. Zac, why are you here anyway? Don't you have to be working or something?"

Ah. That brought him back down to somewhere closer to earth. Zac froze for an infinitesimal moment of a second, before glancing down at her.

"I needed to get out of Zaun for a little bit," he answered noncommittally, with a shrug. "Breathe some real air."

"Oh." The Dark Child tossed her teddy bear into the sky, spinning in a quick circle before catching him. "How's Mr. Mouse? Is he still stinky?"

Now he was on the dirt, grounded.

The Secret Weapon fought to keep the emotion off his face as something ugly seemed to bubble back to the surface. There was a pang in his chest – a seizing on his heart that came with the guilt of being happy after a tragedy. Despite himself, his face screwed up.

"He's, uh, he's not..." He tried to find the words, struggled to phrase it in a way that would convey to her exactly what he meant – she was only a child, after all. Zac swallowed, and it was thick in his throat. "He's not with us anymore."

"Oh."

They stopped under a tree. Annie looked up at him, and her eyes were very large and bright and green, he noticed. Very young, innocent looking eyes.

"Are you sad, Mr. Zac?" she asked, taking his huge hand in hers. There was a strange sort of earnestness in her voice, a sincerity written on her face that rattled him. "Don't be sad."

His fingers splayed out and stiffened, and it was all he could do not to pull his hand from hers. Zac took a shaky breath.

"You know, Annie," he began, a bitter smile spreading across his face, "I'm trying. I'm really trying, but... it's hard."

"He went to the moon," she told him reassuringly, swinging their joined hands. "Where there's lots and lots of cheese."

"Do you think he's happy?" he wondered, giving a short, weak laugh that hurt his chest. Zac had to take another breath, and he covered his mouth with one hand as if it would help him hold in his dry sob. When he glanced down, Annie was hugging his arm, cheek pressed into his wrist.

"The happiest."

.

.

.

"Come to boast?"

His voice came out raspy, crawling out of his throat like a sandworm on coarse legs. He could hear the low breathing of the Voidwalker's mask - the hesitant shift of his feet on stone. Malzahar swallowed, licking his lips with a dry tongue.

"I've come for many things," was the reply. "Namely, as to why you aren't dead."

They must not have told him right off. What an unpleasant surprise that must have been! The seer let loose a laugh, leaning against the chains that bound him as if he could take a closer look at his longtime adversary. Even revived, he could feel the ache in his chest where the nether blade had pierced through. The blindfold was hot and muffling upon his face.

"Are you sure?" he asked, with a wide smirk.

"Do not play games with me, Prophet."

"The dead and the imprisoned are quite the same. Only, one sits in a cell and the other in a grave."

"Was it the system? Did you not sabotage it?" the Voidwalker demanded, voice tight with a vexation that amused him greatly.

"You live as well, don't you? Metal men made wrong my right," he replied easily, "and so others die too early, and I too late."

"Abandon your riddles," he demanded angrily. "Your power is gone - you are blind now, Prophet."

"Blind?" Malzahar barked out another laugh, and his throat strained and stretched with it. "I who have had eternity in my sight - do you think mere cloth would blind me?"

"Then tell me where your precious Void is now? What oblivion awaits us non-believers who have met your blows at every turn?" His voice was harsh, echoing as if were trapped inside his mask. He could hear the Voidwalker take another step forward. "You were right, only in that they came. And now that they have been beaten back, you are nothing but blind."

"I was a seer before I was a prophet," he rasped, "just as you were a mage before you walked the Void."

"And where has that left us?" he asked lowly. There was another rattling breath and he sounded close - too close. Malzahar clenched his teeth, and listened to the creaking of his jaw.

He could hear it, in the distance. The clicking of type, the whispery threads of magic unraveling. There was the strange sensation of something crumbling, of something fading away - erasure. Words flashed brightly behind his eyelids: terminate.

Let it never be said that prophecy was limited to sight.

"Who is more monstrous?" he wondered aloud, and he cradled the next words in his throat for a long moment, festering them against the back of his tongue with their poison. "The Voidborn you call abominations, or your League that terminates them with no remorse?"

"What nonsense are you spewing?"

"A single button pressed, and souls are lost forever," murmured Malzahar. "The Chain Warden would weep."

"I did not come here to listen to your madness," snapped the Voidwalker.

The Prophet of the Void tilted his head up towards the sound of his voice, as if he could see him. "Then what did you come here for?"

A long moment of silence, filled only by the reverberating breaths of the Voidwalker behind his mask. A grin stretched across his face, dried lips cracking.

"Your daughter, is it?" There was a quiet, sharp inhale - and he knew he'd hit the mark. He chuckled. "Poor unfortunate…"

"Hold your tongue!" He let out a long, ragged breath. "Tell me what you know."

"I cannot tell with a tied tongue," answered Malzahar flippantly. "Will you have silence, or - hck!"

A cold hand on his throat. A crushing grip. His bleeding lips drew up into a sneer. It was familiar, so familiar.

"_Tell me what __you__ know_," growled the Voidwalker.

He choked out a straining laugh from his hold, gagging around struggling breaths as the grip tightened.

"Your daughter… is one with the Void now," he managed. "W-whether a changed child… or… a fresh feast…!"

"I could kill you," murmured the Voidwalker, and his voice was lethal and low. "I could kill you right now."

"Do it!" gasped the Prophet, grin stretching his face wide even as the very air seemed to draw from his chest. "You - did it - once!"

He could see it in the darkness, the wide, open door; freedom, eternity, rest. Death.

The hand on his throat clenched tight - his windpipe would be crushed! - and then drew away. Malzahar took long, deep breaths that rattled in his ribcage.

"I could… but I won't." He could hear the shifting of cloth and metal as the Voidwalker moved away.

"Cowardice," Malzahar hissed through the stabbing pain in his throat.

"Cruelty," he countered. "A vengeance like no other."

"Hah! Walk away with the knowledge that you've spared your daughter's killer!" croaked the Prophet, straining against his chains. The sound of departing footsteps hung heavily in the air.

No.

_No_ – he could not possibly leave him here. Not like this. Not like the rest.

The slightest scritch of dirt as if someone were turning on their heel. The Voidwalker's voice, soft and far gone.

"Waste away with the knowledge that your end days will be in this cell."

Then a harsh screech, like an old gate swinging on its hinges – the clicks and hums of the gears of a runic lock whirring into place – the sound of his own breathing, ringing harshly in his ears, and then -

Utter silence.

A void.

.

.

.


	25. Resolution

They had been tricked. Every last one of them.

She didn't think she could finish reading – no – she had seen enough.

Lux turned over the thick document, glancing away with weary eyes. So many questions trailed through her mind at that moment, who's and how's and what's, but, more than anything, _why's_. Why, why, _why?_

She couldn't understand it – couldn't wrap her head quite around the reasoning beyond mentally beating herself senseless for her naivete. _Of course_ the Institute hadn't been forthright about their cause, how could she have expected them to be? A non-profit, supranational organization dedicated to preventing further collateral damage due to war was... far too good to be true. She had felt it from the very beginning, but – after all these years, she wanted to believe that there was an institution that was, at its heart, _good_.

But the system was an unquestionable violation of ethics, no matter what sets of ethics were being used.

Chaining their souls to a machine without their knowledge? Placing arbitrary restraints on their power without consent? Having the ability to terminate them at will with the press of a single button? She hadn't even been able to get through the technical details in full, but the very notion of it sent shudders down her spine. The realization that – right at this very moment – that ability to terminate was being used did nothing to ease her.

Lux grimaced, peeling back a corner of the report before deciding that she definitely wasn't going to finish it and shoving the document away. Across the table, her brother watched with knowing eyes.

"It's not right," she sighed, after a moment sitting in silence.

"Indeed." Garen tilted his head towards her, leaning on the table with folded arms. "What the Institute commissioned of the Machine Herald was a grave crime."

"I'm not talking about that," muttered the mage, looking away. "I'm talking about the fact that... we took it up ourselves."

"The accursed machine will be destroyed in due time," he said simply. In his tone, there was something almost like nonchalance – and it bothered her.

"That doesn't mean we should use its power for the time we still have it," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"Demacia is merely cleaning up the Institute's mess," her brother replied, and his voice had a sharp, warning edge that she knew well. "If the other nations had not washed their hands of it completely, the duty would not fall to us."

'Duty.' Now there was a questionable word. There were so many things she wanted to counter with, so many ways she knew she could respond, but she also knew her brother, by this point at least marginally well, and so Lux bit down on her tongue – silent.

"I realize that you have some reservations about our activities on Valoran," sighed Garen at length, and when she looked back at him, his gaze was downcast. Almost... downtrodden. "But now is not the time for dissent. Now, more than ever, we as Demacians must stand together."

"I know that," she started to say, before stopping short. Lux pressed her lips into a thin line, meeting her brother's level gaze. "...I know that."

"Then you know what we must do," he told her firmly, a hand coming to rest on the overturned report. "I didn't let you read this so you could sow the seeds of discord among us."

"Even so!" cried Lux, snapping forward in her seat, hands gripping the edge of the table tight. "The Institute of War, and us – how are we any better? What are we doing that's any better?"

Her eyes sought his, and she willed her face to look beseeching because he needed to see – he needed to see reason. They couldn't condone this, couldn't carry out these acts and still pretend like they had been all these years – could they?

Garen met her pleading glance with one that was steely and solid and closed off, so very closed off, and Lux realized that it had been a long, long time since they had truly been brother and sister rather than fellow officers of Demacia. He seemed to take a deep breath, shoulders raising and lowering with the air moving through his lungs as, finally, he averted his gaze.

"What we do is right," he said, and it was soft. It made her wonder.

"But..."

"Luxanna," he murmured, looking back at her again. There was a warning in his tone, but it sounded strained, and tight. "The Institute committed a wrong."

_We're just taking their place_, she thought to herself, _we're just making their authority ours._ They didn't have to be the ones to incarcerate Malzahar, it wasn't their place to be using the system to terminate the remaining Voidborn – what were they doing but replacing the Institute of War?

"Demacia must make it right."

_Why,_ Lux thought desperately, _why couldn't he see?_

"Garen," she called out – and it surprised her as much as it did him. There was a waver in her voice, but she swallowed it. "Do you honestly believe that?"

Her brother glanced at her, and there was something in his eyes that seemed to her incredibly resigned.

"I must."

.

.

.

She had been counting them - the sunrises.

Twenty-five since the battle on the bay had left little of the Voidborn but dark stains upon the sand. Twenty-two since she had been carted back to Demacia for treatment. Seventeen since the fall of the Institute of War.

One more until she returned to her people.

And fifteen sunrises she had repeated this.

Fifteen mornings, with the bleary sun brushing the sky - "Tomorrow, I'll go." Fifteen evenings, as the waxing moon reached for the night - "Maybe the day after."

How many sunrises to bring her into the water?

Nami wondered.

"I thought you might be here." The Tidecaller looked over her shoulder.

She was so bright.

"Leona," she greeted softly, returning her gaze to the ocean. "Long time no see."

The sound of her armor, metal on metal clinking together, was loud, even against the roar of tides beating against the cliff face. How she hadn't heard her coming, Nami had no clue. She turned to look and realized - it was because Leona was right next to her now, sitting down.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, not meeting her eyes. "You're a bit far, from Rakkor…"

"Pantheon and I were giving the sheriff our last regards before we returned home," came the easy reply. "I… it may not be my place to assume, but I would have thought you would have returned to _your_ home already."

There was a brief second of silence between them - Nami held her breath, and was painfully aware of Leona's eyes passing over her.

"You know," she managed to say, "I did mean to go back, a lot sooner, but…"

Another pause, and then Leona told her gently, "I understand."

And the Tidecaller gulped down something thick in her throat, and tore her gaze away from the sea.

"No," she whispered, eyes meeting Leona's, then looking away, "I don't think you do."

There was a hand on her shoulder then, a battered gold gauntlet with a tender touch, but she tore away, arms crossing over herself tightly. Nami took a deep breath, shuddering.

"I don't think you do at all," she managed, forcing the words out around something that felt like a sob. Her chest - her chest felt so tight - she couldn't breathe…!

"Nami - "

"I'm scared!" she cried out, snapping her head around to face Leona with eyes that were wide and watery. The Marai sucked in another uneven breath, hand clamping over her mouth before she turned away again. "I'm scared…"

Perched on the cliff's edge as she was, she could see the fierce waves beneath her, crashing against jagged rock. White sea foam splashed upwards towards them - like the nip of a shark just missed - and there was a sea breeze across the ocean. It carried the taste of home on its wings and it filled her nose and mouth with salt and something else, until she wanted to gag on it.

The something else tasted like death.

The Radiant Dawn made no reply to her, and she was afraid to look for the fear of seeing something in her eyes that would be... judging. Yet even so, the words spilled out, some kind of force pushing them through as if her first outburst had opened a floodgate barely held.

"I think my people - t-the Marai have been…" She choked on the rest of the sentence, floundering for words that wouldn't destroy her. "If they're all - all gone, then, I… I…!"

Nami buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. _Stop it, stop it, stop it! _she screamed inwardly, _What will crying do?_

She clenched her jaw tight, teeth grinding together as she tried to stuff down the surging emotions within. It seemed to her that there was something painful gripping her chest - something painful and tight that squeezed her until she couldn't breathe - and it felt as if her heart was bathed in bile and being forced up her throat. She could almost taste it bubbling up against the back of her tongue - the bile or her heart, she didn't know.

It tasted bitter.

"I don't want to go home," she whispered at last, peering at the sea through webbed fingers. "If I don't go home, then I… I can keep hoping."

Her inflection pitched high on the last word, voice breaking, and Nami braced her frame tight in an attempt to hold herself together.

"I'm running away, I know. I don't want to face reality. I just..." The Tidecaller took another shuddering breath, and swallowed it. "Leona, does that make me… childish?"

There was a long moment of silence. Leona's voice was gentle - but her words were cutting.

"Yes."

Guilt seized her, and she burned with an indescribable cocktail of shame and grief. Barely, above the pangs of her heart, did she hear a sigh.

"But you are still a child."

Nami turned to look at her again - and was nearly blinded. Upon her face, the Radiant Dawn wore something so warm and compassionate that it rattled her, nearly to her core, and she sucked in a sharp breath, trembling. A hand was on her shoulder again, but this time she did not tear away.

"You are young, Nami," came Leona's voice, soothing and serene, "and you have suffered a great calamity. To demand an unwavering heart in the face of such adversity is folly."

There was an arm around her shoulders then, pulling her close in a partial-embrace, and the Marai leaned into it, resting her cheek against the cool metal of Leona's pauldron. It was calming, somehow, and for the first time, she tasted the clean air of the beach instead of the sharp tang of the sea.

"I won't tell you never to return, but you must first come to terms with your grief. When you are sure of yourself again - sure as the tides, you said - then… consider going home."

Far in the distance, over the sea-bound horizon, the sun had nearly finished its ascent. The sky was a gradient of rose-water hues, reflecting across the ocean like an enormous, shifting painting.

"What about you?" asked Nami, after a while. Leona had suffered as well.

The Radiant Dawn was quiet for a bit, as if thinking. Then came her voice, soft.

"I will overcome."

.

.

.

"So this is where you were."

"Oh," he muttered, glancing downwards, "it's you."

The Nine-Tailed Fox peered up at him, smiling brightly. Just barely did he catch the motion of her waving hand between the branches.

"That looks fun," she chirped, moving closer to the tree. "Let me join you."

Before he could even think to refuse, she had scrambled up the trunk, plopping herself down next to him. The bough, thick as it was, sagged beneath her weight, but it did not protest.

Yasuo had no such reservations.

"Didn't they teach you not to bother a man while he's drinking?" he complained, taking a swig out of his flask for emphasis.

Ahri hummed in reply, swinging her legs back and forth. "Only that you're not supposed to drink in the middle of the day." He almost rolled his eyes at that one - bloody monks." Say, does it taste good?"

"What, you want some?" he asked, shooting her a sideways look.

The fox met his gaze with wide eyes, tilting her head at him. "They told me not to have liquor. Said it would be a bad idea."

"Hah!" Yasuo threw his head back and gulped down another mouthful, cradling the liquid on the edge of his throat, savoring its harsh flavor. "That's a good one."

She didn't offer any reply, carrying on with her leg-swinging as she stared out into the distance. From their perch on the huge tree, they could see the monastery's whole courtyard. Wayward children were playing not too far away, whether wards of Shojin or simply children of those visiting, he didn't know. It didn't matter to him one way or the other.

For a day in autumn, there was no breeze. That set him ill at ease, if nothing else, and Yasuo took another sip from his flask, as if the burning of the alcohol down his throat could take his mind off the pool of lead that seemed to have settled in his stomach. The monastery was enclosed by large, sturdy stone walls, and even as he glanced over them from the treetop, they seemed impassable.

He had the strangest feeling he was being trapped.

"Why are you here, fox?" he asked at last, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. Foreboding thoughts would do him no good - may as well take the distraction when it was offered to him.

"I came to thank you," she answered easily. "For when you rushed me to Soraka, that one time."

Ah. He remembered the dead-weight of her limp form, cold in his arms - or maybe that was a different event. The alcohol must have been settling in. He wasn't sure.

"I could handle that much," he returned simply, shrugging. "You don't owe me that much."

"Funny," said Ahri, without looking at him. "Shen said that too. Or something along those lines."

"The ninja?" asked Yasuo, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I thanked him too," she told him, smiling. Then she leaned in close. "Like this."

It must have been his fuzzied senses, dulled by the liquor, but the Unforgiven was only vaguely aware of the sensation of her lips brushing over his cheek. When it finally registered, he turned and shot her a deadpan look.

"You thanked him like that?"

"Well, not exactly," she admitted, grinning. She tapped her lips with a finger. "I kissed him here instead."

The awkward mental image that summoned in his head was all too amusing. He had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from laughing. "How'd he take it? Poor bastard froze up?"

"Kind of," admitted Ahri, crossing her arms as if befuddled. "Now that I think of it, Akali got jealous… But I kissed her too, so I think we're even now."

Yasuo couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him then, and he raised his flask to his lips in an attempt to drink it down. He only succeeded in sending the liquid down the wrong pipe.

"You - you have no idea - how this stuff works - do you?" he asked around coughs, thumping at his chest.

"Isn't getting kisses a good thing?" Her brows drew together, and it was amazing just how confused she looked. "I mean, so many people liked it when I was just _blowing _it at them, so…"

"That and this are two different things," he managed to say as his sputtering started to die down. "Are you really a seductress?"

"People liked me enough to let me take things," was her shoulder-shrugging reply. "Things that maybe I shouldn't have been taking… But giving is a lot harder than I thought."

"Is it?" he asked nonchalantly, sparing her a glance. She wasn't swinging her legs anymore - her head was tilted downwards. Pensive.

"Wukong was right," she said at length. Her eyes met his, and in that brief second, he had the impression that they were much more fox-like than before. "Fitting in with humans is hard."

"Then why do you want to do it?"

"Because we want to be human too," replied Ahri, smiling at him. It looked strange - different from her other smiles. Almost as if it were… older.

"Heh," he scoffed, averting his gaze, "you don't want to be human. Trust me on that."

"Sure we do." From the corner of his eye, he could see her fingering the edges of her sleeve with a thoughtful expression. Then her gaze seemed drawn to his sword. "You make beautiful things…"

"And we use them to do ugly things," Yasuo pointed out bitterly, taking another swig out of his flask. "It's not something you should aspire to."

"But you feel such interesting things too," she persisted. Her voice lilted, dreamlike as if she was describing a reality not quite hers - or else one she knew all too well. "Love, hatred… Remorse."

"I could do without those things," he muttered under his breath. Ahri laughed quietly - at what, he didn't know.

"You'd be nothing without those things." She looked at him strangely, and it unsettled him, golden eyes all too wide and incisive for his tastes. "You carry them like a weight forever, and they define you."

"Who taught you that one?" he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he faced her.

"Karma did." Ahri turned away, kicking her legs at the air once again. "She's right, isn't she?"

"I don't know about that," he murmured, taking a sip. The sword on his belt seemed to press into his side all too heavily then. His cape fluttered lightly. Ah, finally - a wind. "But… Is that the kind of burden you and the monkey really want to carry?"

"It's already here," she replied simply, gesturing at her shoulders as if there were really some kind of weight resting on them. She flashed him a quiet smile. "But we're learning to deal with it - together."

For lack of anything better to say, he merely grunted in reply, downing the rest of the liquor in his flask. "Together." A pretty word for a pretty idea, but it was too late for him now.

The walls were closing in.

"Will you be all right?" asked the fox tentatively, breaking the silence.

"What do you mean by that?" The Unforgiven shot her a sideways look, gaze heavy under the alcohol.

"The upcoming judgment…" she began to say, trailing off. Ahri paused, frowning, before picking up again, "If it doesn't go well, they won't punish you too badly, will they?"

"Heh." Lazily, he tipped the flask over, watching as the last drops of liquor dribbled from its lip. "Not too badly… There's worse things than death."

"Execution? But they're treating you so well here…"

"If you don't treat a man nicely before his impending death, you look like a monster," explained Yasuo easily, tucking his chin into the collar of his cape. "Ever heard of last requests? It's a little like 'don't speak ill of the dead' - I'm sure you'll learn it sooner or later."

"That's confusing," she mumbled to herself with the slightest tilt of her head. "But I have faith. With Shen providing input, if you're really innocent, there's no way you could get convicted."

He hummed something low in his throat, eyes turning upwards. The autumn sky was gray between the shedding branches.

"The Eye of Twilight..." he muttered to himself. "I don't know about that…"

He didn't trust a ninja's judgment, no matter how 'superior' it was purported to be. Cowards who could only fight in the shadows had no honor, and without honor, he didn't think any judgment the Kinkou could turn on him would be worth anything. Ionia was a land obsessed with it, after all. He, too, had…

Yasuo shook himself from his thoughts. No - he needed to focus on other things - the slight nip in the faint breeze that had started up, the distant sounds of those playing children in the courtyard. The past was in the past, and it ought to stay there.

At least until it brought him to the end of another blade.

.

.

.

"Miss Du Couteau," he greeted, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

Katarina shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eyeing him warily. When she'd been called to the war room, she hadn't been expecting this. Wasn't he considered missing in Zaun right now?

"Singed," she returned reluctantly. "Why are you here?"

The Mad Chemist shot her a glance with his cheeks curved up in such a way that she had the feeling he was smiling. She didn't like it.

"Various reasons," was his casual reply. He resumed his easygoing sorting, spreading out various pieces of empty glassware on a table in the corner. The Sinister Blade got the impression that they wouldn't stay empty for long.

"For now, why he's here is not your concern." Swain tapped his cane on the wooden floor, and she snapped her gaze back to him, holding in a grimace. "Miss Du Couteau, Noxus has need of your services."

"A hit?" she asked, incredulously. "So soon after the fallout with the Institute?"

Swain's eyes creased at the corners, and she knew he was smirking from the way his brows drew together - there were far too many masked men in this room. "The early bird guts the worm."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Katarina, adding as an irked afterthought, "sir."

The dark bird - monstrosity, more like - perched on his shoulder turned its head this way and that before fixing her with a look that seemed more like a glare. The Noxian assassin turned her eyes away uncomfortably. Whether it was because of the Grand General's low chuckle or the faint sound of clinking glass in the background, her stomach coiled tightly in dread.

Something was wrong here.

"Tell me," began Swain at last, hobbling closer, "when was the last time you've been to Demacia?"

.

.

.

One of the things he liked best about how swampy the Isles were was that it created a huge blanket of fog everywhere. Swirling just above the ground in a thick mist, at times it was difficult for travelers to tell whether the wispy form in the distance was simply the fog shifting around or something less… innocuous.

A single tap on the shoulder was usually enough for him to reap his daily symphony from unwitting passersby.

Thresh hummed to himself, deep and echoing tones muffled by the mist. His lantern was heavy today. He had had a good harvest on Valoran - even better than he expected - and idly, he swung it back and forth on its chain, watching its green light bounce off the water particles in the air. Ah, there was the other thing to like about fog - the way it tore light apart, scattering it amongst the clouds as a dim, imperceptible glow.

"Welcome home," he murmured, stepping off the boat and onto the riverbank. His boots sunk into the mud ever so slightly, but he paid it no mind, nodding his head at the ghostly ferrier as it shoved off once more. His lantern seemed to glow brighter in response, and the Chain Warden chuckled quietly to himself. "Do not lament now. The worst is yet to come."

Trudging through the sparse woods, filled with gnarled, overhanging trees and a scraggly, brambled undergrowth, Thresh counted his steps. Two hundred to reach the archway, but no matter. As long as he could see the castle looming in the distance, nowhere was too far.

Ghost lights floated overhead, flickering pitifully as the last vestiges of their wills began to die out - weary souls fading into the dark mist. Such a pleasant sight to welcome his return.

"Take a look," he whispered, holding up his lantern to the waning lights. "See? It comes to an end… eventually."

There seemed to pass over its musty glass panes a crackle of magic, and Thresh hummed to himself, returning it to his side. The lantern crackled again - a faint glow of blue escaping - and this time, the specter smirked, patting it once.

"Ah, afraid? Fear not." He laughed quietly again, ghastly, over-layering tones echoing raspily into the fog. "For you, there is much work to be done."

Thresh continued forward, brushing past the trunk of a dying tree. His heavy boots sloshed through murky water as land gave way to swamp, but even so, he could feel the mist dispersing around him, as if a heavy cloak were lifting off his shoulders. Beyond the thinning thicket emerged the outline of the castle, its spires inky by the shadow of its gloom. Pleased, the Chain Warden pressed on.

And unbeknownst to him, the pane on his lantern had cracked.

.

.

.

This was not what she deserved, but -

It was all she could offer her.

The grave was marked by a simple, stone tablet. No name, only a date. She had wanted to engrave a symbol on it, but the request had been too blasphemous for the stone-makers. Diana could not even be interred as a member of the Lunari, only a heretic to fade away into the annals of their history.

They had buried her in an empty field on the outskirts of the village so that she would not desecrate the sanctity of the main graveyard.

"I'm sorry," said Leona, standing before her, and she meant it for so much more than the grave. "I'm sorry."

Closing her eyes, the Radiant Dawn sunk to the ground. She felt so tired - so very tired.

"You saved us," she murmured, a hand brushing over stone.

Nami's words echoed in her head.

"_Didn't you see it? That solar flare… came from the moon."_

Taking a deep breath, she leaned her forehead against the tablet, arms reaching around to embrace it. There was something thick in her throat, but Leona forced it down.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling away.

Her death had not been the catalyst, but a casualty of the disastrous spiral of events that had occurred - and yet, she had been instrumental in ending it. The irony was almost too much for her, and Leona clenched her jaw tight, listening to the sound of her teeth scraping together.

It seemed to her that her voice was rising, up through her chest and throat, into her mouth as if it were about to surge outwards, and she wanted to scream - scream into the sky.

_How?_ she asked herself, eyes turning heavenward. Red streaked across the sky, haphazard brush-strokes of languid fire as the sun dipped towards the horizon. _If there is a greater force watching over us… How could it be so cruel?_

There came an image to her then, summoned unbidden from the furthest crevices of her memory. A bright smile, wide eyes - the cheerful face of a curious girl.

And here she lay, downtrodden by fate. Sleeping in the earth without due reverence.

If things had gone differently - if they hadn't been chosen, then...

Leona took another breath, chest tight. With a trembling hand, she reached into her pocket, and fished out the item Nami had given her last they met. It sat in pieces in the palm of her hand, shards glinting in the sunlight.

The force of the solar flare had fractured the moonstone.

This sole relic, the last remaining memento of Diana's existence and all that she stood for after the confiscation of her effects by the elders… This was something she deserved to be buried with, if nothing else.

Holding it in her palm, she found herself lost for a moment in its glimmering fragments. A hundred years of light swirled beneath its pearlescent surface, a sight almost hypnotic to behold. It seemed to her that the moonstone that had saved Runeterra was almost analogous to Runeterra itself now. Ties breaking back and forth, ominous tidings for the future, political tensions running high, everything was -

Everything was fractured.

What would it take to bring the pieces back together?

She wondered.

With light fingers, the Radiant Dawn dug out a small divot in the dirt. The shards clinked as they fell in, and she brushed the dry, dusty earth on top until no more slivers of light peaked through. There - it was done.

Slowly rising, Leona brushed off her knees, facing the grave once more.

"_She loved you."_

"Farewell," she murmured. "Where ever you are, I pray that you will be happy, and I…"

The chosen of the sun trailed off, the words dying in her throat. She swallowed thickly, hands clenched at her sides before finally averting her gaze. Night had fallen.

Leona turned around - and walked away.

.

.

.

_I loved you too._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Huge apologies for the lateness of this update - I was torn between rushing something out ASAP or taking my time to make sure it was up to usual quality. I compromised and decided to post it as soon as I had it ready to go live. Almost waited for Monday to come around...

Anyway, surprise! This is the final chapter - hence all the sequel baiting. I hope you enjoyed reading _Fracture_, and even if you didn't, thanks for making it to this point regardless. To my frequent reviewers **RuntyGrunty, GrezzWizard, Kaiser Spartan, **and **VanguardShores, **a gigantic thank you for providing feedback almost the whole way through! I really appreciated it.

This is the end of _Fracture_, but this is probably not the end of all these (ironically) un-resolved plotlines. Will probably be a year at least, but hopefully I'll see you all around for my next fic. Thank you again!

InspectorPanderp


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